Bitter ends drip out of my second tongue. It knows all the wrong words to say. I can’t remember which mouth I used to speak. I’m learning to love the taste of my own bile. An endless trail of witnesses will hide every lie that brought you to my home. There is no real me. There never was. I leave with scissor blades embedded in my throat. I obsess. I need satisfaction that only dead cells can provide. If I can taste blood then I know that I’m still alive. I wanted to speak, but every time I tried I’d found that the words had escaped me. I saw you leave and my blood ran cold, but I still couldn’t let you forget me… and if nothing ever changes, then daylight starts again, and the draft will erase all evidence of the crime… and if I was dead inside, then at least I was something, but my name won’t mean shit when it’s dragged through the mud. What is living when I don’t feel real? What is pain in the absence of joy? What is death when my life is the defect? What if silence doesn’t cancel the noise? The answers won’t mean anything if I refuse to let them into my heart. I walk (assembly line) to the mercy seat. Days have lost all their meaning. It all feels the same to me. I’m drowning in truths that I refuse to let out. I’m choking on every reminder of what this is all about. Your mouth tastes like graves to me. This is a self-surgery with no anaesthetic. I need to see the burning remains inside myself. Somewhere along the way, I sabotaged my chance at life. I built walls that caved in under pressure and turned around to see nobody there at all. Leave me (in the cold grip of your arms). Believe me (you’ll never be safe from harm). What do I say when it doesn’t fucking matter? We’re always stuck in vicious cycles. We lose ourselves in the broken bone patterns. They’re not setting, the bones are not setting into place. Though I tried, I can’t live my life for you. There’s nothing that I said that I wouldn’t do. I reached deep into the back of my mind. I stared in disbelief to find my fingerprints on your back. I obsess over the ones I’ve scared away. I make tombs out of the stones in my way… and I’ve learned to bear the roaches that hide inside my chest: a metamorphosis into everything that you detest. This is the sound of the void taking place inside of me. This is the empty vessel that cannot speak with honesty. This is the autopsy for every life I took. When I live on borrowed time, I know that I’ll die alone.