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i dont feel bitter anymore,
but the wound still bleeds quite often;
seeping reminders into my clothes, painting me with somber pigments long forgotten in my deadened pallor.
if i didn't think that
it would wound you mortally,
i would pull you in close
and pretend not to feel
the puncturing of quills.
been a while.

yeah, i'm still pining.
a beast wearing delicate skin
pulled from another work of mine
with great hesitance and trepidation
i decided i was prepared
for change in my station.
i thought, like a fool,
that it would feel
like renewal,
or vacation--
but the place to which i ran away
was a hell of my own creation.
it's stuck in my throat.
try to speak, can't denote.
try to stay, can't devote.
try to leave, forget my coat.
barely afloat by the foot note,
need a scapegoat or a re-vote.
there we were, late for takeoff
and too early for landing.
all bruises and tears,
and ringing in the ears.

there we were, barely standing.
we were clinically, morbidly,
gloriously grotesque,
and **** picturesque,
heart is heavy today
when my final record plays,
will death stop and watch me
as i dance one last dance?
will he take my hands,
and spin around with me?
will he clap when it's done?
would he for anybody?
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