In this, I feel
Shaky hands that cannot type
My breath unable to catch like coats on a hanger
Chocked by garbage dispensers in mid flight

I have no one to blame but myself
For letting your smile that stabs like daggers,
Into my vulnerable organs now spilled on the floor,
all the more craddled in my now bloodied hands

You could say its my lack of conviction
or my social manners in dealing with all the more composed

Your eyes that catch mine and rip open the doors to my early demise

Yet, These intense emotions are all in my head
This lair where you slumber and never wake
because you are not really here

Your stay is that of a cheap motel fly, who zips and zaps
your noise quick and sharp

How all the others cannot see the glow that surrounds you
is beyond any words I could compose

It is known that I do, because it is I that is motionless from the amount I inject
The osmosis of emotional intake, has left me dead on the ground.