Monday 24 January 2011

My problem.

When I see your picture my heart forms a fissure,
I guess that I get this way.
I need a rooftop I can look from or jump off,
I guess that I get this way.

What's the problem, dear? Are you feeling unloved?
That's what I was most afraid of.

I need a fresh arm I can slice up or cut off,
I guess that I get this way.
When my skies are crooked my scars turn blue,
I guess that I get this way.

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