The track changes.
Renewed, suffocating spasms cling on your sore throat,
malicious and so profoundly true,
cold as the sweaty sheets on which you dared to dream.
You yearn to tear your heart out and paint the wall with long, crimson strokes,
one for every night youve spent alone
and every star you didnt wish on.
The unfinished puzzle of chewed-upon pieces
laughs at you, staring back from the corner of your eye;
you dont even remember what it showed,
what pieces you havent swallowed are still moist
but youre sure it had a sun somewhere.
A toothless smile wanders over the remains of your shattered mirror,
sardonically reflecting your demise
and something inside you dies again.
What faint moonlight provides you with such shady grave cloths
hectors to pierce your eyelids and drag your bloody fingertips
over the wings you carved on your panting chest.
Youre alone like always,
filled with the echoes of tears and frenzied screams,
the kind that only feathe