Wings set hard, laying on the tile floor. Dead moth in the stairwell. Figures pass by; shadows bounce off

Words are like art. Reading the text on a page and wishing I could write like tha… like words that spill from my pen come so naturally and

I have no way, no escape to calm their suspicions. I feel them looking, seeking,

I’ll crawl into your bed and burrow under your covers. I’ll be your little secret, so quiet and so afraid. You’re killing me.

The sullen piano notes of the broken hearted folks ring and never stop ringing. The sound fades, but it still plays.

God, I think you’re there, but at home in my bed alone, it’s hard to know that you hear. I want to believe that you care,

How fragile are you, I’m so reckless. You let me past your iron bars and I gave you more scars. But you hurt me, too.

You are like a landmine, I’m trying not to set you off. Choking from the inside out, on the smoke that I cough. I don’t know where you lie.

I can’t stop thinking What’s the point? When I stop speaking It’s myself I disappoint. When I stop texting,