the skies have poured out their blue
and something about the way they do
reminds me of what I did to you.
but you knew I was no good;
you’d felt it on my skin and in the hollows of my knuckles,
as if my words weren’t enough.
the going always gets tough –
this chronic rollercoaster, where neither of us
can hang on until the end of the ride,
this terrible love we keep walking,
you’re stumbling and I’m never talking.
I don’t know what it means anymore.
it’s just us on the kitchen floor,
wondering which was deadlier:
the knives or the fire.
we’ll pretend I’m not a liar
and that you’re not losing this game –
anything that helps you keep sane.
your blood terrarium, my empty echoes
this codependent existence so shallow;
only killing time,
only killing what you wish could be mine.