the skies have poured out their blue

and something about the way they do

reminds me of what I did to you.

but you knew I was no good;

you’d felt it on my skin and in the hollows of my knuckles,

as if my words weren’t enough.

the going always gets tough –

this chronic rollercoaster, where neither of us

can hang on until the end of the ride,

this terrible love we keep walking,

you’re stumbling and I’m never talking

I don’t know what it means anymore.

it’s just us on the kitchen floor

wondering which was deadlier:

the knives or the fire.

we’ll pretend I’m not a liar

and that you’re not losing this game –

anything that helps you keep sane.

your blood terrarium, my empty echoes

this codependent existence so shallow;

only killing time,

only killing what you wish could be mine.