Skinshifter

Pencil-thin facade, your face a cliche of paper mache lies Dancing this masquerade, your torn mask turning to confetti before my eyes I'm going to walk away, I'll pack my things and leave I'm going far away from where we are today. Smeared lipstick smile, your kisses tainted, this death is mine. Facade remains naked, your bedroom eyes locked, I see you this time. If you ever think of me, I hope that you will see that we could never be-- so this is where I leave. Trample this heartbeat, blood pooling beneath your feet, say you're sorry with wet lips, crush these dreams with those hips. I'm going to walk away, I'll pack

Sketching unfinished images of tarnished sunsets across torn-blanket mountain scenery, the mind doesn't seem to think much sense should be made of nonsense. Stationery tragically standing still, spelling longing across mahogany desks left empty through economic disapproval of thought trains running through dismal stretches of mostly empty terrain.

Alive for but a moment, my feet sinking in the sand, standing to deliver this message to Heaven: I'm waiting for a reason to fall. In love and alive, my feet sinking in the sand, raising my voice to the sky and making this demand of heaven: send me a reason to fall. Flat on my face, no escape, no place left to look but inside the heart still beats so I must be alive. Alive and in love with dying, my knees sunk into the sand, I'm kneeling to ask this boon of Heaven: give me a reason to fall. Flat on my face, no escape, no place left to look but inside the hear still beats so I must still be alive. Dying and in life wi

Over emphasized self reliance demands release into another where safe harbors become barnacle covered with forgetting to leave. Turned-back alarmed clocks, set to never go off, stay asleep in this embrace and promise they'll never forget to leave.

He'd say it's everywhere if it'd make it truth. He'd say it's nothing if the lie could set root. He'd say it's everything if it'd make it real. He'd say it's nothing if it'd let him heal. Tormented he paces between yes and no, all or nothing, what he wants and needs, and it seems to me that should he stop he'd be where he'd be.

Lyrical nonsense, praying for prayer to answer itself the monumental megalithic essence of doubt lingers. Make rhythm from dripping water, broken faucet symphony cacophonic resonances echo dully through empty space. Piano wire murder the strings plucked blown by the wind the breath sighs about unheard, answers left wanting.

"If I could kiss you hard enough..." I whisper into the wind left in your wake, knowing you aren't listening: you're dead to me-- or is it I that has died? I can hardly tell anymore. "Do you still love me?" I chant to the shadows in the corners, the lingering smells, the memories you've left behind. They never answer, and I know they never will; I'm dead to them, a Ghost haunting the halls of my own memory. And were you ever here at all? I can hardly tell anymore.

I'm cutting my own flesh with your words, tearing open my fresh scabs and peeling back the living skin to remind myself, so I can never forget. I'm carving your name in the soft skin of my chest, accompanied by a lopsided smile to remember that happiness is just another scar over my still-beating- broken, broken heart. I call out to you with tooth-marked, tattered tongue to call to my mind the past betrayals and ultimate let-downs that follow the call-- my fall from grace to self-imposed cutting of self-destructive vindictive flesh that calls out to the cutter.