We’re stuck in the moments
between today and yesterday,
like moths we are
drawn to the ultraviolet lights
that will burn our wings
stopping us from flying away;
letting us be free,
we’re dying in a false dream
filled with hope.
We sit in our surreal sadness
with diamonds for tears
falling so often
they’ve become worthless.
Is this happiness?
Children imitating our idols
lost at sea
praying they’ll come home soon
and write us lullabies.
What are we even for anymore?
To cry and muse on behalf of
The perfect past.
I promise you darling
we’re all very lovely
writing soliloquies to die for,
of our disastrously dangerous desires
that want to scar us
marking our unclean bodies forevermore.
We’re the scared dreamers,
little kids who grew up jaggedly
like flowers raised by an eclipse
that lasted a thousand years.
We can write words that make men cry
but our lives will fall apart,
the romantic symphonies
hiding our broken hearts
will burn us dead.
