Bless yourself, you ended up in my poetry.
You call them poems, after all, and I'm sure you know this is as close as you'd get to having me.
Cast away the demons you claim sleep under your bed.
You know that even after making my skin crawl that you're all in my head.
Father, son and holy ghost-
The only thing I believe in are phantoms, but you already knew that didn't you.
So what's so cathartic about the way you cleanse me of my sins?
Do you mask mine in your own, does my purity make you feel clean?
You're the darkest night when the stars don't want to be seen.
Laying ice upon my spine you see that maybe I'm not right for your skies.
You're stitches in my side from a crack that didn't show.
You touched me to pieces but even you have to go.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
Bless yourself, you ended up in my poetry.
You call them poems, after all, and I'm sure you know this is as close as you'd get to having me.
Cast away the demons you claim sleep under your bed.
You know that even after making my skin crawl that you're all in my head.
Father, son and holy ghost-
The only thing I believe in are phantoms, but you already knew that didn't you.
So what's so cathartic about the way you cleanse me of my sins?
Do you mask mine in your own, does my purity make you feel clean?
You're the darkest night when the stars don't want to be seen.
Laying ice upon my spine you see that maybe I'm not right for your skies.
You're stitches in my side from a crack that didn't show.
You touched me to pieces but even you have to go.
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