Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again

I cannot contain my fear of death,
Or rather my fear of disfigurement;
My skin refuses to stay clean,
regardless of my constant cleansing.
I am marked and pocked,
a map of wounds and stains.
I am everything red
and nothing clear;
even my tears displace pure color.
I fear the loss of my special normalcy
of which I am barely confident.
My first defense is also my first impression,
and I can already feel the distaste.

If I am to die with ink on my hands,
Please leave it be.
Do not wash even the smallest scrawled reminder,
For it is part of me.
Leave it to remind me that even in death,
There are things to do.
Leave open faced palms,
If they confess my love for you.
Know of the unexpected,
And if you see your name,
Remember why it is written.
You are not to blame.
Let my skin keep its faces
For when my own is no longer revealing,
How will you know what I thought,
How would you know what I was feeling?