Uncomfortable

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Flesh-thought wreckages, gore on fine

Paper. A first prize masochist, they say'd give it all up.

Curse your eyes, your mouth, your mind, that I'd 180 for a touch.

Anything to brush up, against you in time.


It's too late to mend the cracks,

To un-wrinkle the path and iron the creases,

We lost our way when we bent our backs,

For adventures that left us sleepless. 


It's better this way, they say. But I burn and I ache,

At the thought of what I've given you,

And what you gave.


Now everything's uncomfortable,

And what used to be sacred,

Is repressed, because we've faked it.


Now we're uncomfortable.

But I still love you after all.









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