Writing this letter to myself, I just want my heart to feel normal again.
I'm running on empty, yet rolling down this hill with no chance of return.
What happened to the days when I used to walk across town just to see you.
Those days are gone and my heart has grown hard as the concrete I stand on.
I've given up the steel, the dust and my own reflection to you. And what's left?
Forging words from ashes, they mean nothing
is what I have left in this vessel, you took it all without blinking
eyes attempting focus but always falling short of you
never thought I'd know your heart like topography reinvented.
I no longer ache, I no longer fear, I no longer cry.
Anger is only a word as a and clothe is suffer with blank pull lovers inquisition.
You planned your test with vindication in mind
your own flaws but hold it to the world as well
as I can tell, you gave up long ago.
My legs are growing numb as I pull this candle behind me.
It burns a dim light; I fear I will die with it. I fear it will kill the witness.
The opera is coming to an end. The curtains closing whims me no applaud.
For I can now see the visages removed. The grandeur, immobilized as the zipper runs down.
Forfeiting admission, I won't stay to see the fat lady sing. She's off key anyways.
Critical lashings of the tongue never suited the meek,
though those who claim meek are the most decadant.
If this ink should ever bitter your tongue, pain me once again
because this time, I will deserve it.
