You cut beer cakes over my wrists, and
I wince - enchanted eyes, you watch my
artwork and it burns you, I hope that it
turns you away. This is a game.
I wonder why I am so childlike, ribbon-dancing
around your soap bubble and glass scar heart.
I paint trees in foam and write suicide notes
three days early. How could I expect success unless
I redirect your veins to you hands [just like mine]
and fight fire with fire and sin with sin?
People are brittle, but they always win.
