I'm supposed to pick up these pieces of me you've dropped to the floor. It's meaningless to clean this mess, because there's nothing left to mend. If drapes could talk all my secrets would spill, but they'd be harder to clean than blood.1
These sins are real and I think in time I'll turn them to steel. It's my torch, my badge, my claim to fame. And even if I were to cry, I think inside I would still resist to die. So here I am just waiting for The Man to fill me up with that Peter Pan shit. The night sky, I believe to be be dyed. Fake. Orange, red, blue and green. All those colors, but they aren't really true.2
What of love? What's left of that? What's there to fill those hollow cracks? By cracks I mean people, and by love I mean glue. What's holding them together? Who's holding you?
Author notes
What's left of this.
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