Late

Communicating life's crush and bloom

My timing has always been off

Suicides memory and chalk stained sorcery

These are the nights I hate my scars more than anything, harsh reminders of why I notice every single slip in mood or tempo. Every eye shift, every body tense and apathetic sigh.

Preparing for a burning reprimand gives us feral senses but as keen as they ever could be. Eying that piercing bubbled reflection of why I even ‘was’ left a permanent footprint of my future construct. Now I just stare in abject horror at the lucidity of this dream we call life and wonder how I’m even tolerated. Because I don’t deserve to be.

When did people become so careless that they ended up believing all their own lies?

My diaries of peeled skin and dried blood

Together with the slurred speech of a drunk poet

Left you deaf and blind

With an echo

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