“your breath is more than enough for me
to paint all the colors of the early morning sky,”
said the cliche, but certainly the blood you cough up
is more than sufficient to stain my sheets a scarlet hue

we’re black and white when the color dies
so just let me bleed here like a Polaroid
waiting for an ever-increasing deadline
and the peace on the heels of a horseman

I’m too young to feel this cold
but you’ve already canned by soul
and shoved it inside a closet full of sweatshirts
in favor of an ever-pulsing motor

my thoughts unwind every damned night when you take my head apart
and lay all the bloody pieces on the floor
this might as well be mannequin maintenance
from how plastic I feel under your touch


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