you are not the first to wear
the same beckoning, calling skin
your fine edges annulling my roots,
       and i don’t think you were the first to
****.

    **** what once was
    a ticking pocket watch, an echo
    heard only by one
    now ticking for fallen ears.

It does hurt to see things die,
but there is a certain satisfaction
In having washed hands

it all feels like disease and i want to strip my bones raw; manic
(sugar rush deity)

what am i to you… what are you to me, aside from endearing silhouettes; pixie
(mumbling shy songs)

in an ocean of violents in bloom we speak artificial prayer; dream
(cloaked in starry-eyed acapella—thats what they think, no?)

i surrender to your clarity and intensity and charm and beauty that my hands are too numb and dull to touch; girl

and then comes wrath: a dewy vileness teetering on the brink of your 9th life
now hell has harnessed my chest, for it is with deep regret and shaky sobs that every opening and crack in my body emits rotten remains of our silent war…

but there are still heartfelts i never mustered up the courage to let go of:

thank you for tip-toeing around broken strings to reach out once more, twice more
thank you for enduring my futile voyages through resentment
thank you for soaking all my insanity in like sunlight and excreting back out a gentle rainfall

For every time they let me walk in.
I knew they had won and only wanted one thing.

I grew tired of waiting so eventually I gave in.

Then you took me by surprise when your gain wasn't their win.