quiet music, pale stress
old records and books you've read
diminishing returns to keep you at the edge
your head has a room with an art exhibit to which only you have access
to invent new ways to say i love you without a face attached, that become less about the statement and more how to perform it
till you become so obsessed over the finer details that used to have infinite value in their purposelessness
till that aforementioned room becomes your place of rest
And to replace a sense of touch you become those pieces of art you present inside your head, as they manifest into a separate identity
And with your armor that persists with this chemical entity's presence you buy some time to get to your feet to run again
To find a friend
To find an audience to show this mess of a poem while there is still time left and then
you feel the knife push deep into your abdomen and