I consider myself to be fragile;
a mass of skin accompanied by a web of bones
with some veins and blood thrown in the middle,
easily breakable, easily burnable,
easy to tear apart.
My mind is a spider web;
a weapon of mass destruction,
complicated and tangled,
pulling in things and tearing them apart.
I write words on paper with ink
as if the words were written in my blood;
everything means something,
everything is tied to me;
every stroke seems to bring me together
and every stroke seems to tear me apart.
I consider you to be fragile;
a mass of skin accompanied by a web of bones,
a heart in there somewhere which you showed to me once
and wings that you never showed me, but I saw anyway.
You’re just as easily breakable, easily burnable,
just as easy to tear apart,
but somehow it’s you doing the tearing,
and I’m the one being torn.