At least I think I'm not that certain....

Her tiny fingers untying knots
A well traveled paperback on her lap
She ran out of matches trying to burn down her bad habits
Endless sparks struggled on satin

Started stealing paper planes
Stopped accepting hand-me-downs
She puts her ear to the past tense now
Finding little more than little girl gowns

So if you’re going to drown,
Drown in your own fucking abstract, acerbic assonance

Let go.
I know who I am

Nothing more than carbon
Locked in a travel case
Chained to the corpse of the finest family man
Dressed up in his best three-piece disfigurement

He goes hiding in my favourite birthdays

Count your matches
I've got some glue,
Find me an obituary
And we'll do make and do.

What you should wear in a rocking chair

Standing in the threshold
She trips in with no Grace
Once again that little brass handle
Is given a thoughtless tug

Shrill thanks need not wake me
Yet this this tiny square button
Failing to light
Makes you sigh, shakes the cobwebs from under my eyes

There is nothing tying us together
Only what's tied around my wrist
Only a hospital scare
And the clothes in my room

But in a ten foot box
We're never so alone
I can hear every shuffle
Through oiled gears and thundering silence

But then, these doors eat up the threshold

I should probably stop and sleep
But if this stops I don't think I'll ever sleep

What my thumb thinks

"Hit me"
Violent Violet, hands sunk in her sides
She stumbles up stairs, into my eyes
Lense flairs, shines on old dreams
Skin tears, stung to the seam
Stencil me sickly dear
I need you to scream

The curtains that hang
Wrap round my sleep
My mirrored chest
Holding your head just as deep

As it needs to be

Won't you wake up?
I've something to tell you.

"If you're going to hit me,
Hit me".