Houses are built to be homes, so consider my clavicle your door frame.
These arms are slowly hardening to brick.
You see, dry wall has the tendency to give in to the weight of your knuckles and the press of your skin so the arms that so eagerly work to surround you in safety needed renovation.
One day you decided my rib cage staircase squeaked too much and the rooms you've filled where too small.
I could have Renovated, but you Doused me in gasoline and started a fire searching for flames of answer.
I hope my blanket of ashes brings you the warmth you needed.

It's been a year now since Ive lost the ability to find truth in any of the words that constantly spill from your mouth. Disappointment is breaking yourself down trying to find the answer when you feel like the problem but realizing your consistency isn't enough for the consumption of your prized consumer.
My substance never had a place on your pallet of taste so you devour whatever source of matter to fill the empty spaces.
You stay hungry...
I might just be a glass of water, but at least I'm full.

Sometimes, I can hear your voice over the announcement speakers in the space of my mind saying things that made my bones rattle and my teeth shake.

Epinephrine burns memories into your mind.
My adrenal glands tend to find a production overload at just a glance of you,  now the only thing holding my leather casings together are the indentions of your memory.
My pages have never felt so worn.
I'm becoming a a novel you never wrote.

They dipped my bones in patience  and lathered my skin with strength as God said "She's gunna need it".
I was made for you.

She has her hips pierced.
One of them has left her skin but the scar still remains.
I Can see them, the ones glistening off her souls surface.
Ive found myself drowning in her seas.
Blue.
But not just any blue, the kind of blue that takes your breath away.
It can never be created nor destroyed, she is matter.

She felt like being touched by God.
Maybe that's why I crave the strike of lightning, the closest feel of her fingers gracing my skin. Clouds flood her head full of rain that flush any thought I me down her never ending gutters.
She was always a storm, and I've always loved the rain.

I think I've met her before.
They told me your shades were drawn but the windows  leading to your soul seemed to be taking in fresh air, you see it's hard hiding behind stained glass windows when everyone is just trying to look in, isn't it?
Crawling through your windows, I've been here before. The rooms of your soul smelt of home and felt of comfort.
I've been here before.
Tell me I've been here before..

I've never liked to wear watches, something about my blood thumping in synchronized rhythm with the sound of my borrowed seconds.
I saw you,
I saw you and realized That the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole only consist because you exist.
The time I seemed to deem irrelevant suddenly found purpose.
All of the events filling that space had been leading me to this one moment.
Time has never been a friend to me.
So now as I scratch at the skin surrounding the counted down tick to the exact moment in time when you made my purpose a lesson.
The only time I ever had was already yours.
When I am gone, seconds will be counted as you bundle existence without me and I will finally have been worth all the moments of your time.

Time becomes the truth.
Effortlessly floating by, never once crossing.
This is where we belong.
This is where it begins.

You hear a lot about love when you're a kid but they fail to prepare you for it.
They don't tell you that breaking yourself down into the size of sand grains because you fell in love with an empty hour glass and wanted to be the only thing keeping her time wouldn't be enough to make her stay.


Now You're scattered across the floor trying to find their warning.