If we were only this. Just a maze of veins. To be solved. A chalkboard of skin. To write upon. And be erased without consequence. Then i could understand. Why the hurt grows so big only to shrink back down into nothing.
We are true or false questions. The vague geometry of loneliness tutoring the soft angles in the heart. We are god. Responsible for the happiness of everyone around us. We are the Satan's who take the blame for all their misfortunes.
If we were only what we wanted to be I'd be nothing. But we're still. Always have been what they want from us.
Discarded apple cores envious of the pie in the oven. Pillows with names I can't recall. Hairs on the sheets that still wreak of all the men who made me glad to be a whore.
Each life is its own crippled avalanche. Each life has a pedestal. A place for the things it can't have. Some are stable. While others need to fall.
