I was charcoal drawings, you were taking camera snaps,
Frozen moments, mosquitos stuck in amber traps, handicapped,
You were Polaroids, stretching out a memory,
I'm only broken since my etching now will never be.
My work might feel saturated when I get all "introspection-y"
But I'm so exposed, we're all contrasted and you look like silhouettes to me,
I try not to let them get to me, those polarising statements,
I bite my thumbnails inside a lonely, idle basement,
And I shudder when I think what state that time will lapse the world into,
It lends a resolution, the pics'll frame you and I'll persecute.