We were in a painting, the two of us
She was holding my hand
In the soft glow of our own bodies
And the warmth of her palm
I felt it in my throat, and on my face

We were in a painting, you and me
And the way you lay in my arms
I felt, a stranger in my own home
Who are you, who are you?
In one strange city of love, I found you

She stands in the distance,
The smell of a memory on her hands
Old blankets and old incense,
Old meals and tangerine melancholy and wick-fire soot,
The smell of sharp turpentine and paint
Reaching for me, like tentacles floating in the air.

She stands in the distance,
Sunbeams dripping from her fingers
She stands, with a question on her face
And I watch her, and I can only imagine
Time standing still, frozen; my soul immortalized in a single stroke of tantalizing yellow
I am made of paint and light.

It's four in the morning
How did I come this far
Things splattered on the ceiling
My limbs all fall apart
It's four in the morning
Where did the sun go now
I gathered all my feelings
I wanted you to know somehow
I told you mother
I've never felt so dark
My hands were shaking
Pale and white and stark
And I dropped the spirits
They came crashing to the ground
I raised my head and felt so dizzy
Oh, all the places the blood had turned and found
It's four in the morning
Now I'm scared of my ceiling
My heart beats in agony
Time only crawls away from me
And on my walls, I find it perplexing
That I see the pictures of another
All the books on the shelves
They seem to be melting into the ether
I keep dreaming of a home
With a traffic light of it's own
All the roads meet their end
At my feet, and it feels set in stone
I've prayed to all my gods from the sky
I've cried my pleas clear and high
Tell me what I have done wrong
My sweet, sweet mother
Oh song of silence, won't you take some rest
For days and days, I've beat my breast
For and end, for and end
I look for the end
Say you'll walk with me mother
I need to find the end

Good Evening,
I hope your journey was pleasurable
Would you like any refreshments?
A hot cup of blood perhaps,
Or some freshly brewed darkness?

a metal plate inside me, ever since—

It wants an escape and so do I
— trapped, we're both trapped.
They told me it wouldn’t come out without melting
So I collected some sticks, set fire to my lungs
—the smoke came out of my lips
in shrill screams— I’m a forest

And my blood, a scared squirrel;
runs up and down my depths
with a blazed tail. burns what it licks
—the bottom of my muddy grounds
trees trunks, branches, leaves and nails.
the bridge between my brain and I

and everything shuts down—all lights go off
in the dark, only fire remains
no one dances where she does, no one lives where—

and I turn the metal sheet over
and over the flames
It heats up, it cooks and turns red
its edges kiss my flesh and he winces
— melts—
dripping into the fire—
gone—
and I turn the metal sheet over and over
It blushes but never bleeds
dry like dead leaves, but never dies
doesn’t melt, nor soften,
doesn’t even breathe—

and the flesh keeps dripping and then rebuilds
and the dripping rebuilds the fire
and the fire rebuilds the smoke—
but the metal never melts

the smoke creeps out and I let it
Someone tells me to stop the noise
but I say I never said a word—
And they tell me to stop the noise
But I say I never said a world—

and the smoke comes out and I let it
and they tell me to stop the noise
but I don’t say I never said a word.

and the metal never melts, the fire never stops
and I never say a wo—

Someone clamps my mouth shut and I fall asleep,
turning the metal over the flames
turning—still turning.
Still turning.

Turn
       ing.
and all in me screams.
                             Turning over
             and over
and
over.
      and
          
—ov
        er.

and all in me screams.