i’ve been known to be reckless with myself, i’ve been told that i’m not sure of how precious life is, and the preciousness of it is exactly what made me play games with my heartbeat.
my fear of death disappeared at 13 when i discovered how my skin was made of paper and i could draw fault lines and create a spectacle of fire dancing over my veins;
i lost worth in myself when i lost the desire to nurture myself anymore.
i let you play with my hair and dance your fingers along my bare back, and convinced myself i loved you even if it sounded like an apology whenever i said it,
and it did nothing but show me that i’m flesh, and bones, and scraped knees.
it’s easy enough to see what you are when all you have to do is look, and at the same time, i’m doing all i can to flee from it.
you flew out of my veins in a jet of crimson cobwebs and i can’t take looking at you in another photo with that pretty girl you held hands with a few days after you left me and knowing i’m not going to be the one undoing the threads of your conscience tonight.
something without colour is sleeping in me, and its less frightening when the voices in your head tell you that the horizon is going to sing for you in the morning;
until every chord and ballad turns orange and you get to see the sky paint how much it loves you.