there was a shuddering of my beliefs
and your summer fancy slipped my grasp;
and the weathered pages
of my book peeled back from the spine,
revealing the quickly scrawled secrets
of a girl
who does not know her name.
the way your january fingers tangled in my hair
reminded me of warmth that brings shivers
and your.cold.is.dead.
bleached pale fingernails
and you convinced myself to snort sulfur,
but you couldn't promise me the future.
name a song and show your palms,
and tell me that my 3AM
walk in the rain brought you back.
i want to believe
that the sway of a damp swing will
show the words tattooed on our lips and bring them to life.
i would show you it's alright,
but the rampant feelings of a spine-less sculpture
only shatters bottles,
not incorrect assumptions.
sew my tongue to the wall
and tack the words over peeling wallpaper,
so all can see the desecration of a fault.