This clock smokes a cigarette and tucks itself into the nest hidden inside of my jaw made from the sticks in my eyes and the branches in my brain. They act as a memento of all of my cherished and celebrated flaws. You know, the ones that to everyone else seem deep and emotional and artistic and cool, but to me seem just seem clinically insane. These branches are pawns from Fool’s Paradise calling to me—I can see them floating idly above my head like tiny taunting yellow birds from my memories. They try to make me forget whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing these doves from my nest into my heart. They flap their wings in my chest monotonously and obnoxiously; a tireless taunting heartbeat. You’re a modern desolate suicide with your heart filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides, poisoning all of my beautiful birds of Fool’s Paradise.

They’re teaching me to fly now, making me too exhausted to even lose it anymore, and too exhausted to think I can choose it. (“It” being the toxins making me dizzy and Ms. “Miss Me Please”. Pathetic.) This restless clock stays awake and is impassively beating a tragic ballad like a phantom of my pallid heart which silently screams. It’s foolish and hushed and timidly invalid. The rhythm paces past pit stops searching for the sound of silence but never stops to eat or for a pick-me-up when it’s lasted this long already. You’re a modern romantic suicide wringing out my heart with your rigid hands and hanging it out to dry.
Sometimes my heartbreak will abruptly brake and snarl at me like a moon exhausted at daybreak refusing to hold itself up for the world anymore. It’s as if it trips and stumbles across its own canvas in the sky, collapsing into my nest weighing me down into the deepest of these one-hundred thousand lakes of solitude, making me a drowning anchor at best, bringing the whole **** ship and crew down with me. It’s as if your shiny poisonous soul blasts my shaded nest with lasers from a science-fiction fantasy with all robots and no magic, and the necessary darkness needed for dreams begins to fade. Your sparkle is surfing and effortlessly riding the tsunami of my mind, unaware of the sharks with razor teeth made of my pathetic emotions. How are you so charming and rustic, and yet so piously unkind?

And I could tell you that you’re not alone yet, but you would never believe me. And I could tell  you you’re far too ******* yourself and too ******* me and too ******* us and the catastrophic hurricane we’d be lucky to be, but you would never want to believe me. I could tell you that you’ve got your heavy crown all tangled up in your hair filled with twigs and branches but I won’t because I know you won’t dare to care.

But it’s true, you’re not alone yet. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through or who you’ve been through or anything we’ve been through . It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen or who you’ve seen, these sentimental knives still seem to lacerate your brain, I know they have. I’ve acquired my fair share of daggers—please let me guide you through the pain or at least pretend to if you’ll let me. You’re not alone, although I know you wish you were. I’m sorry.

So leave me be when you’re not alone. Let’s both abandon me together so you can be alone. Give me your hands because you’re staggering on this uneven floor. Let me hold your struggling heart still because it’s beat is staggering. Let me be alone with you because you’re staggering… but I’m a chore.

Sometimes I feel like there is a balloon inside of my heart that is deliberately deflating to a point where my skin can’t stretch far enough to protect it anymore. Sometimes I feel like there a minuscule puncture in my heart that is so small that nobody can even see it. I wonder if I’m the growing void, or if the void is growing inside of me.

The delusion of you lurks in the corners of my brain and I’m so ashamed about it. It’s like you sleep in the underbelly of my eyelids that keep leaking because there is no more room for them without you living in there. It’s as if you made a puncture in my eyes so small that nobody can see it but they can see the streams that used to snuggle up in there.

You make me feel like I’m a speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill and spent on a pack of gum.