Chaotic ***** lover,
skin made of cyanide
a princess made of man.

I get anxious at silence and wait.
How can you love someone you
give so little effort too.
Minimal.
Garbage.

I don't hear whats so beautiful anymore,
so I revel in the filth that I've become.
Shitlord.
Taking time to cough out
fragments of clockwork,
carrying cracked lips that
sway in a breeze
beat on a broken ankle.

Are you somewhere lost at sea?
Are you riding on a storm?
Do you feel lonely when you
turn over and there's another
cold spot in the bed?

I don't expect much anymore.
I want to sit in muttering silence and enjoy
the quiet in my head.
[where]
You aren't real to me.

I relish the chance to yell you into something small;
a field mouse or the belly of a great monster.

Love is tearing me into ribbons,
but with care, they become banners and streamers
for a parade held in honor for a martyr
who hasn't died yet.
The reality is smeared into the genes.

Downgrade in technology.
Lost in your own eyes.
Aggravated.
Always paranoid.

Sleep in for
a couple months.