crimson emeralds that shine out from across time to a babe in golden swaddling clothes. never pure enough, blood flowing closer to the surface than ever thought possible. painted toes, all the better to walk on glass shards, painting pretty paths for no ones to come chasing after me.

this one's for you. i don't even know why i'm doing this anymore.

lies. all lies, they drip so easily from my lips that honesties have fled, seemingly for all the eternity of great voids within everyone. no matter how hard they mask them with mascara wands and beautiful dresses. the sound of yr head will always sound the same when it falls on yr desk, no matter how much paint lies on yr face, no matter how rustic the mahogany.

searching for illustrious neverminds, carmine answers to questions obscured in grammar and illiteracy. how many times must i remain empty before my flesh is pieced back together? how many times must i demand humility and seek my own face to run red?

a pained audience searches out the lone star on the stage; she's missed her curtain call. cookie cutter replacements that won't ever fit, won't ever shine, glitzed and glammed in black satin stilletoes and a gentleman's jacket. one of the last few remaining articles from glorious times two days before. two eons before, riding away into setting suns on glistening horse-back.

show some compassion, this isn't you. watch the left while your past sneaks up on you, your future too far away to save me.

this isn't a bad thing.