We go through the cycle,
exhausting ourselves with apologies over
feelings we're not supposed to have.
We numbly pick up the sharp, jagged
pieces of our broken hearts
and mindlessly wipe up the blood.
We inhale and take in the aroma
of one another, a haunting scent
reminding us how to feel.
And we share all the torn, tattered pieces
of our disasterous days, because facing
them together reminds us it's real.
We push the boundary,
we cross the line.
We take a punch to the gut and a stab to the heart
one more time.
This masochistic charade,
a constant temptation
to get high on sensation,
forever plaguing our fragile hearts and feeble minds.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 8:50 AM UTC
We go through the cycle,
exhausting ourselves with apologies over
feelings we're not supposed to have.
We numbly pick up the sharp, jagged
pieces of our broken hearts
and mindlessly wipe up the blood.
We inhale and take in the aroma
of one another, a haunting scent
reminding us how to feel.
And we share all the torn, tattered pieces
of our disasterous days, because facing
them together reminds us it's real.
We push the boundary,
we cross the line.
We take a punch to the gut and a stab to the heart
one more time.
This masochistic charade,
a constant temptation
to get high on sensation,
forever plaguing our fragile hearts and feeble minds.