Quiet.

Your woeful coming-of-age story
Won't be so sad after my work is done.
My job it is made, your perfection
Through loss my influence.
Your compliments through generations my suit
Of impenetrable armor.

Hush.

I can hear his lips falling for you,
Her bottle with a crash to the ground.
If it's the middle-school horror of unrequited love,
They will say everyone goes through it.
But I know they're growing drowsy
From tormenting one innocent.

Goodnight,

Undeserving patient of life's cancers,
And I'll make sure to see you in the morning.
Distance will be my aid,
And slowly tear a love apart.
The trade you want to make is unfair,
But it's in your favor, so

Go to sleep.
I'll make it all go before tomorrow.