10-20-2023, 05:05 PM
Because the air is sick and dark,
dense with disease.
My lungs will blacken and bleed
long before yours; you are accustomed.
Because I am the bird you left in the cave
with no one watching.
Because I reached out to touch your arm,
and your skin felt like leather.
Because sorrow is crawling into every corner of me
like perverted scarabs.
You woke me with the kind of kiss
that can't be ignored, the kind
that asks questions
I thought I could answer.
The clouds assemble
and begin their grim work.
Because you cannot see the ink in the air,
and I am tired of being your beauty—
these are the reasons why
I am going back to sleep.
dense with disease.
My lungs will blacken and bleed
long before yours; you are accustomed.
Because I am the bird you left in the cave
with no one watching.
Because I reached out to touch your arm,
and your skin felt like leather.
Because sorrow is crawling into every corner of me
like perverted scarabs.
You woke me with the kind of kiss
that can't be ignored, the kind
that asks questions
I thought I could answer.
The clouds assemble
and begin their grim work.
Because you cannot see the ink in the air,
and I am tired of being your beauty—
these are the reasons why
I am going back to sleep.