we often forget that yesterday has been turned to dust,
long before tomorrow comes
pastel brush strokes gently conceal lies, wounds, and barbed wire scars
wouldn’t you rather be privy to the explicit state of affairs
rather than be presented with a silver platter, a shroud, filled with lacy lyric and milky emotions swimming in remorse
deception seeps from every one of your thousands of pores
how many times do you have to hit an egg until yoke begins to seep out?