The Art Of The Fickle Ones.

The skin that wraps me
confuses me, it speaks
in a different language
and doesn't know me,
it moves me aside.

The origin of my skin
hurts me, finding stains
on their walls, I'm the most
logical target, mellow stance
before them, already battered
canvas.

Seconds pass, minutes claw,
the volcano that exploded
left residues of hate on my
skin, and the ash left
by strangers was pushed off the edge.

She returns, her steps heavy with remorse?
my skin recoils, my mind is numb,
her fire dead, I'm left hurting,
in the cage of my body.

What are you doing?
Why are you trying to heal me?
You already killed me.

What are you doing?
Why are you whispering guilt?
You know nothing will change.

What are you doing?
You already killed me.

It's so easy,
so easy to breathe out,
breathe out and make
the ashes of our mistakes
go away, out of sight.

But I'm still here,
cold skin covering the
muscle, the tissue,
the skeleton of your regret,
of the ghost of your dreams,
of your life.

You will never know,
how hard it is to walk,
bearing this weight on my back,
the weight of your decisions,
the weight of your mistakes.

You will never know
what my windows have been able
to see, what my fingers have unraveled,
so as you declare to hold the key to
my secrets, I hold the picture of
your dead desires.

Fickle we are, fickle is life,
at one point we settle, but scars
are forever, nowhere to hide
from who we are, the skin that wraps us,
the skin that you marred, will always
be the painting of what you have done.