The dead trees whispered to me in my sleep about happy endings.
(I should have known better than to talk to strangers.)
Maybe the bottomless wine glasses were a dream and I’ll wake up.
(she didn’t wake up)
I heard them say, “His blood turned sour long ago.”
I smiled back at the shadows, nodding my head –
yes.
(But I can’t resist the taste of bitter citrus.)
Do you paint stories across the walls of your mind?
(We accept the love we think we deserve.)
Adrenaline and attraction intertwined at last.
(When is a monster no longer a monster?)
Oh, how the moonlight dances upon despair,
(I have learned to waltz with my own shadow.)
We whispered confessions to the night so still,
(Are secrets safe when whispered to darkness?)
Listen to the symphony in the chaos we created...
(When does the hunted become the hunter?)
In a universe full of paradoxes, what do you believe?
(I stare into a broken mirror, unsure which piece is mine.)
At the edge of reality, where does it end?
Burning alive, my white dress turns into black ash,
I smile, and ask if you’re happy.
(The trees whisper back that you are.)
Mar 10, 2025
Mar 10, 2025 at 11:18 AM UTC
The dead trees whispered to me in my sleep about happy endings.
(I should have known better than to talk to strangers.)
Maybe the bottomless wine glasses were a dream and I’ll wake up.
(she didn’t wake up)
I heard them say, “His blood turned sour long ago.”
I smiled back at the shadows, nodding my head –
yes.
(But I can’t resist the taste of bitter citrus.)
Do you paint stories across the walls of your mind?
(We accept the love we think we deserve.)
Adrenaline and attraction intertwined at last.
(When is a monster no longer a monster?)
Oh, how the moonlight dances upon despair,
(I have learned to waltz with my own shadow.)
We whispered confessions to the night so still,
(Are secrets safe when whispered to darkness?)
Listen to the symphony in the chaos we created...
(When does the hunted become the hunter?)
In a universe full of paradoxes, what do you believe?
(I stare into a broken mirror, unsure which piece is mine.)
At the edge of reality, where does it end?
Burning alive, my white dress turns into black ash,
I smile, and ask if you’re happy.
(The trees whisper back that you are.)
