mygod my god.
with a serrated knife and a dirty blanket,
two impassive eyes and fragile disposition;
we’re hurling our metal parts over the bridge
and since everyone else seems to know,
this here, our bones:

It's so goddamn hard to be brave these days,
around here; With you
talking only in vowels
telling you that I almost love you,
hearing liar liar more than my own name.
what's worse...
giving up secrets, or speaking lies?