sometimes under the swollen
moon and dim stars i find myself
chipping away
or perhaps like shedding layers of
skin and i find i am
empty
inside. it must hurt to be you
to be eaten by a bruise of
disease
it must hurt that you can't be
fine. i don't
deserve
this, but you don't deserve this
even more and
to think you could survive would be
like wishing you could visit
the moon or even
your mother's house but i'll tell
you this-
when fate brings death on his shoulder
i'll distract him while you find
the way
out.