and we rummage through fragile tissue, tangles of forgeries.
We become mere onlookers, detached from ideals of our own destruction.
So she tells me about the dream.
About the night she slit her tongue on broken glass.
About the ratchet of the wind and the lullabies she whispered
The 3AM rush of a wild pilgrimage to nowhere.
The conception of hunger in a cavalcade.
Now, I’ve kissed the mouths of many mechanisms.
Now I’ve decoded coping, the subliminal pleas of tea-stained wisdom.
These days all I want is to pry the sword out of the stone and wear it in my hair.
All I want is to engrave your shadow into my skin, bone and soul, if I have one.
All I want is, perhaps, impossible and childish.
A whirlpool of sunswept secrets on the living room floor.
Pale evenings, effortless and numb.
Call an ambulance, call an army.
The battlefield in your eyes. How it eats you from the inside.
You are blooming in its truest form: carnal, chaotic. Cracking floors.
What’s worse than shame? you ask
I don’t know, I’ve been unlearning my own history lately.
Posing questions to nobody.