Angel or Arsonist?

whiskeydippedflower Poems

I am a multitude of selves determined to find the one that you wanted. I am more safe than sorry and I have always been more sordid than saintly. The softness that resides in me is scarce but it's yours. This softness is the storm cloud over your head and the ache you've been drinking about. This won't **** you but it'll make you bleed. This is the tiredness that sleep can't fix, this melancholy, this melody, the holes in butterfly nets. We are faulty dreamcatchers. I can't tell if this has been calculated or careless or which thought makes me more sick of myself. But there is something to be said about a hope that refuses to die even after you've shown it where it is to be buried. Sometimes I'm not even sure what I'm sorry for, but I've learned to say it just in case. I was never your baby, we were just killing time.