&
&
&

an anthology of excuses rests on the cusp of your lips & that ridge right behind your
teeth like weapons cut into your own skin leave you bruised &
bleeding children remain out for blood, but you can't stop natural, not like
that boy is nevermore, nevertheless, and never ever every eve, he craves the fresh moonlight up his
sleeve - like a slight of hands but still far enough away to ―

what you mean to say is: you are
longing for a sort of reprieve, a word here which means escape, or perhaps comfort―such as a safe haven, or maybe someone to hold, or to hold you.

what you mean to say is: you often cannot tell the limits of skin, of mortality, and things around you are often bloody in your efforts to love them; your love becomes pure in consumption & consumption alone. you are digging a grave & for who you have not a clue.

what you mean to say is: hurt & hurting are synonymous with each other; the child shown no love will find warmth in blood & bodies alive / dead.

what you mean to say is: that boy is an analog, a list, a sequence if numbers and code that when played out on a computer read out your name, tour life, your sin on just about the cheapest wide-rule paper you can possibly find.

what you mean to say is: a slight of hand is:

one moment you are here, the next you are

―GONE are the days of youth, cusp of glory & bleeding noses, scraped knees and wonder wonder wonder! GRAYISH SACCHARINE & BELOVED, we are children of the night & maybe the sun could love us right if it wasn't so blinding.