A present of suffering
With a soul and ticker that trickles with common decency.
An oath that presses hysterically inwards with its thumbs
Bursting the windpipe that supposedly brings in life.
Sit me down, if you please,
Let me stare at that smashed glass complexion
As the shattered slices stomp their way
In and out of every pore of my peeling skin.
I receive feeble dolls
Who have the audacity to swaddle me,
Or even let me weep deep into their
I guess I’m sorry,
Sincerely that is,
That you’ve dived into the damnation
Of these deep azure and melancholy eyes.