make me a dress out of baby's breath, woven together with 424 regrets and i will dance like the gravel that tumbles under your feet as you walk. the friction between the door and the wooden floor doesn't create a spark quite like the unheard voices that fill up cheap wine glasses with bottles of bluff. there's a table with a platter of the last goodbyes of everyone who couldn't keep their hearts on their sleeves instead of putting them back in their chests on a table somewhere, and we're eating these for dinner, resuscitating promises and lies like a new breed of bulimic.

i wake up and the room is always blue with shades of red in the corners and the cracks and i'm breaking my back to not feel so under the weather, but these days i think that even the weather is under the weather. my backbone is callused and faulty, i'm weak with thousands of thoughts of poignant disguises of love and poisonous excuses that explain why i can't find a conclusion. a disease with symptoms such as dissatisfaction with the best parts of myself and attempting to never interact with the bad that leaves a blank canvas and an invisible human in the mirror. all of the sickness keeps me from seeing past the shadows from the bars on this rusty cage.