i hate the green on my tongue
and i dont know what im holding
on for as i sit on the bench
and the sun hits i still
have goosebumps
the cauldron hisses

im mad at myself
for hurting the way i do
and enjoying it
i hate my passions and the things i crave
i hate my subversiveness
and no i do love it

i cant stay in the middle of anything
and i need to get out

i cant imagine living
without a whirlwind
living a bathwater life
not poisoning myself

oh how the hurt brings out
my passion
and how i feel for things
i light everything on fire
and i love the ash on me

i let people make stories of me
and ill never tell them
if they are true
i will never know

what do ravens feel about
the smoke in the air
and collapsing lungs
the natural brown i try to
escape from

the whispers in the wall
make my hands cover my ears

when will a chair be pulled
and sat in,
when will i exist with more
than myself
who will love me
ugly and sinking into the furniture