Threading Dull Sword To SleeveMature

I write strangled notes of defiant safety, a broken clock shatters mockingly across my face, time writhes and I stand still, a milk carton in my hand, I cant explain the danger threaded in my head, the sun loses perspective, and I feel my heart splitting across orchids.

Hopelessness resides deep in his pores he threads fingers to scalp, baring frayed skin beneath his nails, particles of hair slither seamlessly through palm, he sits, contorted within the heel of two cupped hands. (Where a milk carton once found its home.)

The seasons fail

- Nothing decays like my mind, something softer whilst the truth I deny. TOUCH ME KISS ME HOLD ME I NEED LIFE.

- The sentiment ends and the world relaxes like the threading of the dull sword to sleeve.

- I often hold hands with myself at night, I get lonely, I get lonely, and it is lonely in my cold bed. Ivory sheets blanket me, mostly a failed attempt. The sun sits dilapidated in my palm, I hold close but no one can hear me, but it is ok, I hold the sun, I hold the sun.

- Do you want some music? I hear the whispers play like sunspots I am no longer dreaming of a night tide separated by my own fissured heart, it is often we die here, in this lunar cycle.

- Is there a reason why you don’t love me any more?

- I never loved you in the first place.

- You lied?

- Yes.

- Tarnished graffiti lay dormant, docile against a broken wall; it’s only a fragment of empyrean, creativity scored in these random everyday comments.

- Last night I killed a man.

- How so different from when you killed me?

- I never killed you, you killed yourself.

- You killed me.

- I appear to hear your whispers, but your deafening screams, are inaudible.

- You killed me.

- Excuse me?

- You killed me.

- And loosely I deem this a reasonable statement, and vaguely I remember the words. The stars shone that night, incandescent, wonderful, words do not describe, I remember words, I remember words, and thoughtfully I catch these night time screams

- I am letting go all boundaries, I love you… I love you.

- And when you love someone…

- You are allowing your destruction. Love is suicide.

- And played out pretty, like the chrysanthemums we plead you never let go under the ebbing moon etched in silver beams that torch the sky, I never committed suicide, I never committed suicide. I love you too much.

Like threading dull sword to sleeve

Stabbing in whispers, the whole thing that we’ve missed, this dull sensation to the score, I home in on the anti Christ, he holds my hand lethargically, soul reaping appears to have taken its toll. The sun drizzles down the sky lymphatic, oozing like a dream weaved upon nasal beams, a softer score plays out in her mind, and touches my waist.

“I love you.”

The words seep quite dangerously into my mind, and I know I wish they wouldn’t.

Moon switch star switch sun takes its toll on her face, each crack defying beauty and as age grasps her I love her back more, even though I am aware those three words mean nothing to her.

The End

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