my eyelashes have turned to stone. my lips are soft, my breathing is even.
my ears have been pierced
with the drumming of time.

acceptance is the sheets,
and my windows have no shades.
attempts to escape; the future will come,
if you wish it so or not.

and so I lay, 3pm on a tuesday in July,
under covers, awaiting my fate
as a lover with no shelter and a killer with no shame.