I don’t think I work proper.

 

My heart beats and bleeds like the rest of them

but my artistes are clogged up with Eve’s cores

leaving a bitter apple taste in my mouth.

My hearts pumps rhythm for rhythm to the beat

of my squad but they love the cover I show them,

not seeing the tattered pages I hide so well.

My hearts screws are tightened, so scarily tight that

I can barely choke out the words people need to hear

simply because I am silenced by fear.

 

Maybe I need a change of batteries.

 

I choke on the smell of freshly picked flowers but

soak in the scent of fallen petals.

A picture still of happily ever after has me

photoshopping for the monster under the marriage bed.

I’d rather contact the FBI to lock me up than have you

contact your hand with mine.

 

Perhaps I need to unplug.

 

I need to unglue the face of the serial disappointer that

I’ve pasted on every person that crosses

my path.

I need to stop allowing people to handle the blade with

my back turned, itching for that sharp piercing.

I need to stop soaking with the washed out dreams and

allow myself to feel the sun’s rays.

 

A broken clock works twice a day but yesterday’s time has left me broken for life.

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