i drip my arms over your tired shoulders.
my hands cascade down your paper-thin back.

you're always crying.

and you're terrible wings tremble, but my dew-soaked fingers are
nimble
and unkind.

this is why no one can love me.

my heart is ill and beating with the strength of a
dying light.

pulsing off and on and off and on.

i carry scissors.

while i hug my poor self,
i clip my wings with the ease of a
psychopath.

there is an end somewhere
but not here.