I can still hear them whispering,
Everyone thinks I'm paranoid...

No one desires to witness these outbursts,
coffee grounds staining palms as love...

I write about you, talk about
you, think about you...

I've watched the wound grow on your heart,
depression- an angry black spot you can't rub off...

You peel away the angled mirrors
until no light is reflected...

I'm to that point where I don't know what to do...
Where am I supposed to go from here when the past...

It's been over two months
since I was wheeled into that...

The red-stained lark
stitched his libretto...

-
She threw paint around...

All other voices are blocked out.
The scratching throat of the wind...

Tempting lips,
resist desires...

She posed like a crow
darkly vulnerable yet...