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You’re showing me all these wonderful things. These sights, these sounds, these touches, these tastes.
You’re giving me all these fantastic things. These lights, these grounds, these clutches, these pastes.

Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before.
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this
still life.

Months ago it seemed the blood on my hands would never wash away. Its iron scent mixed with hypocrisy and resentment. It’s scorched marks on the plaster and crunching glass under your feet and the ripped upholstry on the tired couch. Trying to arrange the pieces I still had on the floor with dramatic lighting in order to take a picture to prove it was at least worth a thousand words. Hating every piece I created because it led to that moment of combustion. Every passion I felt draining out of my wounds, onto your floor, through the cracks, into the soil where I buried all the warning signs. Finally accepting it is possible to lose someone who hasn’t died. Their corpse is six feet under in your heart, not the earth.

Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it’s all for the best? Because it is.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it’s just what we need? And you decided this.
Mmm what you say?
What did she say?

It doesn’t matter. Words sometimes are just words. Living life with words and pages and books having significance doesn’t mean it’s all true. It doesn’t mean I accept everyone’s word as law. It doesn’t mean the plot was set in stone.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don’t believe you.
You don’t care a bit. You don’t care a bit.

Moving away from the compositions to stronger forms of literature. Trading in ransom notes and burglar’s whispers to long handwritten letters and strong declarations. Refusing to catch anything thrown our way that sounds like selfish, awful banter.

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