there is a distinct sadness that only you can make me feel
you, with your cutting fingers and horror eyes
I wear sleeves because I hate my arms, and you are so perfect
there are so many things you don't know
and you can't know
because I never will, I never will
"you're getting so thin, you're slipping away"
people don't ask me how I am really
chupacabra, and its awful claws,
and it's awful because i can't spell that, i don't think
his voice twists me in ways your words are more successful with
and it is so long after dark, you have to come inside
and there is so much silence here, it's pressing me down like no other
there is no need to interpret this, you'll be wrong
there are no metaphors, no similes
but there are people who do exist, even if in my mind solely,
they are based on true events and facts.
i look up ghost stories because I want to scare myself into submission
and still it doesn't work, and I am left merely with dreams
and the faint ocean spray, and your voice calling me on and on
in the distance, on the horizon, into the black and grey,
the blue of all things real and poignant, and that is where I belong.
