Uncomfortable
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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