White pudding curving over the edge.
Soft and wobbly, flabby, flaccid.
Nearly, soonly, dripping, drooping, spilling out.
Trickling down the thigh, onto the floor, into the grooves, saturating fat.
So, a blank screen,
An empty puddle,
A knife.
Just to check the teeth, the hair, the eyes.

It's been a year, year, year,
That I am here, here, here.
I'm sinking deep,
Into my sleep.
I want to leave,
So I can live, live, live.
But I can't go,
When I'm so low, low, low.
I need to prove,
That I can move.
I wish knew,
What I should do.
Do, do, do.

I’m solo, carrying my own, slightly off, tune.
No vivace, no allegro, not even andante.
Just a bitter adagio elegy, fading out inside me.

I’m counting my tears,
Two, three, four.
Mini acrid reservoirs,
A hundred and two, three, four.
Crystallising on my skin,
A thousand and two, three, four.
And I’m a pillar of condemned,
A million of two, three, four.

The humdrumness of happily ever after,
Dull, like grains of sand.
Like waves, ever perpetual,
Ever repeated,
Ever reprinted.

397 samples of man,
I need to let them in.
397 whiffs of stupor,
Behind the door,
An arctic nursery.
397 beads of dread.
I will be suspended in bed.
397 needles till dawn.
Will they hold on?

You were already broken,
I know.
Before you made me go.
Before we crushed.
Before we met.
You already had a set,
Of faulty wires, a lacerated link.
And I knew,
But I didn't think,
About the tear,
I didn't care,
I wanted you.
But then it snapped
And I got trapped,
In a labyrinth,
With you in every corner.
On every next,
In every former.
But I need to remember,
You are broken,
And you dismembered,
Me.