We’ll give them the glass stares they want,
And they’ll eat us alive.
In the background,
I can hear knives sharpening.
White bones waiting to be
Sliced by a certain solitude.
The walls are blank,
But the paint is heavy.
This room is hard to
Hold up on an
Empty stomach.
So we’ll leave,
(Promise that we’ll never come back)
And we’ll be cold when the
Snow blankets our eyelashes,
Douses our fingertips in blue, but
We’ll wait to be rescued.
We’ll have red crosses stitched over
Our chests.
We’ll stop on lonely our way because of
Something curious.
Splintered between the cracks on the sidewalk is
Sadness –
A drop of rain struggling to run its course –
Winter’s fortitude.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC
We’ll give them the glass stares they want,
And they’ll eat us alive.
In the background,
I can hear knives sharpening.
White bones waiting to be
Sliced by a certain solitude.
The walls are blank,
But the paint is heavy.
This room is hard to
Hold up on an
Empty stomach.
So we’ll leave,
(Promise that we’ll never come back)
And we’ll be cold when the
Snow blankets our eyelashes,
Douses our fingertips in blue, but
We’ll wait to be rescued.
We’ll have red crosses stitched over
Our chests.
We’ll stop on lonely our way because of
Something curious.
Splintered between the cracks on the sidewalk is
Sadness –
A drop of rain struggling to run its course –
Winter’s fortitude.