The night is

cold

air

ice

washing down

hail on tin

hair frozen

holding onto the window I

fell

onto the roof.

Melodrama suited me, and I

felt the need to

(scream)

Three or

seven

nine

dial blue

blue red

blue red blur

blur of skirts ripping and

blur of ladders.

And he

violent he

with eyes of ember and

breath of

(whiskey)

cried to them.

Walking on stones, I

reach for my mother

we drive

away

(drive)

I'm sick of the people

and so I

lock myself into the

room (not mine)

and (scream)

Trace of aura

halo

clings to my face.

I'm stuck.

This house smells like

candles and

lavender and peppermint

and chocolate.

The light is orange and the plants are (dead)

I stay here while I run

in place.

My mom is sick and

we are apart

she asks if

I would like to talk

and I say yes but

I don't say anything.

The wound is fresh

unripe

sour

bitter

biting

and I cling to the

bandage of

silence.

I sleep on the floor with my fingers dug into the carpet and my hair tangled

in my sweater.

This is the third night.

I don't like the music I hear

but I (listen)

because the words are pretty

like broken glass.

I don't want to leave this home

because he is at

that

home.

But,

alas,

I am destined to return

just as some

are destined to be great

I am destined

to be

around

those that are

(great).

I miss being destined for

good

but

I ruined that

for myself.

I wish I was him;

I wish he was me;

for torment is a rich man's joy.