trying to avoid the rain on a sunny day
but there's a comfort in this tragedy.
my closet has a bag of ******* the size of a child's body.

You're still wearing all black and it's hard to see you in the dark:
I smash my face against the window to try and see you closer.

It's useless.
I know,
I know.

Our laughter is the closet we'll ever be
and we're both funny people
but panic consumes even in light.

If I can stay longer then what's the point in leaving?

The forest is frightening
because of all the birds
that live in the trees.


It's useless.
I don't want to,
I don't need to.

Stop calling me the real one.
I'm nothing but a pile of bones covered in slowly rotting skin,
some painted and some that's out of my reach.

Those birds are going to get me
and when they do,
I swear you'll find nothing but cotton and dirt.