Damn my conscious; bleeding thin as flesh.
I never dare to speak in desperate conditions.
Measured breaths and well timed semi-sweet slurs
aren't saying much at all and only lead to terms of
casuistry that slumber, unperturbed, between lips
ever unchanging from their lifeless arrangement.
I dream only to refresh my disenchanted view.
Nervous eye contact will bring me to my knees,
where I tend to contusions and seared wounds.
This is happiness at close. It sounds the same
as the attention-starved whore calling for a
photo and then dying bit-by-bit at the flash.
I've overdrawn this only to scratch it out
and reassure myself I will acquiesce,
steadfast to the fashion of your diagnosis.
I was always second guessing the way this should go.
So when it boils down to nicotine soaked lungs,
just to burrow through this weekend, I'll be dead
on arrival from induced excuses, tailored to your
every solace.