All of us

Cruel, manipulative mind feasting on yesterdays syntax
each compiled by a methodical lover,
my imagination had enacted to free me
but my wrists are chiseled from the chains I have grown accustomed to.

Ever so thirsty and high with the tide of moonlight,
Black and blue bruises paint my inverted thighs artistically
whether we make love or sleep separately
The winter tempts us with the brightest star
but we cannot pretend to be golden,
When it is not spring
this whole story turns sour
reality notes its temporary obsession ending

When she falls asleep I am on edge
of the bed,
of reason
Sifting through notes from the day each alter has left me

I grow lost inside their sea,
inevitably bewildered by which one could be the real ‘me’
and worse, find myself left with a needle and thread
in hopes of sowing what they have reaped
the ones that own most of the memories.


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