The world is sinking away from me, a wasteland of
pretense and nothing much real. The fairy tales unravel
without much struggle, and you are as alone as you feel.
(I'll write your name in forget-me-not blue,
the way we painted history in deep-bruised purple
and in the end I think you're a lost cause, too.)
Everything is not okay, we tried to say, before the
plane crash hit and no one would listen anymore.
I'd tried to write this story before; I'd tried to bleed this
nightmare but the ink wouldn't set and no one cared.
(Stick your finger down your throat, like April and
vodka and starless nights. I vomited skittles and loveless
sex and for believing in myself, I paid the price.)
Huddle near the macabre sunset, waiting
for the apocalypse at the edge of existence. We are the
liars and we are the pretenders and we fake emotion and
we try to forgive. Oh, believe us, how we try to forgive.
(And don't say it's easy, when for us it's so fucking hard,
and remind me how the pretty words are lies we use to
dress the wounds of goodbyes and abuse.)
My knees are scraped and bleeding and my mind is cracked
as I'm watching everything I know just coming undone,
in a world where the moon has smoldered in sadness
and our hearts strain for warmth in the shadow of the sun.