zing

I’m doing better than you are, and I’m not well.

what I gave to you was never free and yet you’re not privy to the cost,

and if you knew my name, if you could see my face,

the real me, you know, that guy I presented to you,

the one that was crying, the one that begged you to hold his hand,

gotta wonder who was really taken advantage of here…

they may very well call me shallow,

but they lack the twain to mark my fathoms,

and can’t as yet articulate their own debacles,

just dry yourself off,

with my wounds pouring blood over you,

be grateful and dry your eyes,

for I am nothing but mnemosyne and passing deftly moments ,

and your pages cannot as yet contain me,

but, to be fair, I crushed myself on your salient and unscrupulous edges,

I did indeed volunteer my self your painted fists,

to mar my face,

to bar the passage of my serenity,

arise you and awaken corridors not yet travelled thereupon,

make your way swift and brutal,

and if you should choose to sink your teeth into me,

try the tender places,

and speak aloud,

for none knows your voice as well as I,

visions know not the capacity of my tongue upon you,

but know you not the discrepancies between I and they,

for they are lost without you, but I (well frankly darling), I can most certainly do without.

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