You **** every part of me, except the parts you look at me.

I turn to run, but my dreams are dreams, they load the gun.

And when I sleep I am the sleet, the ice shelf that tears away from safe embrace.

Tips and sinks into the deep, exposed to what may lay beneath.

And the best of me,
Slips away.

The rest of me,
Wastes away.

What silouette drifts away to the rising sun is cool and calm.

The surface shimmers brilliantly, a glass, a ghost, drowning out what I was made to be.