Break the parts of my skin
That don’t seem to be bleeding out
A schizophrenic memory
No one could fully understand
A word in revolution
No lies, no truth, just sighs
Bruises on icy emotion
They make it out to be madness
Ad nauseum, I paint the plastic with flesh
Windowpanes screech against
Moonlight, flooding me with false lavender
Tones, but only in eventide
My bones blush under time spent
The stars scream. The stars flee.
Impressionistic? Or plain sadistic?
The apparitions pass away again
Smitten with the notion, the concept,
Of wrongfulness, of change, of nothing
Of monsters and messy closets
I hide, as I always do. I hide.
And I bide my time like it’s downcast silver
Like a broken harpsichord, I play the night—
If only that would prove that nothing else I feel is right.