He's never aware of how much pain he feels
Until he's pushed to that point...
That snapping, tick-tock of the neck when
The Devil supposedly possesses him.
But it's never the Devil, it's just the silence
In him being reborn again.

She's never aware of the fact
That there's scissors in her shoes
Because she's always dancing...
Dancing to the music of every feeling
Except fine because it makes a lovely tune
Until it doesn't.

This poem exists within a lack of being.

When did they become so frivolous frivolous?

I am aware now.