…and I’m reduced to a billboard in the sky
I don’t know what’s written across my chest
Open like an intimate diary for all to read
But it doesn’t matter anymore

What if we see what we want to see
Rose-colored glasses are only the peak
Give me red, green, blue lenses
I’ll see the world in stereoscopic color
And dance among the migraine-inducing constellations

I feel empty inside sometimes
Like an intricate chocolate shape made for a holiday
Ready to collapse in on myself
And reveal no heart inside

Out of all the things my hands have held
A hand of a lover was by far the best
And the last lock of hair bestowed upon me as a parting gift
Wasn’t the worst
But it certainly ranks up there


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