Jan 8 2009, 6h26

my pale paper hands, creased and torn, are taken
in hers. they are thieves, and they take warmth,
they take a small spot of color from her skin. I don't
want to leave her, but my wrists are tearing, and my
fingers are leaving papercuts on her hands, she
screams just stop, but i can't. there are green,
there are blue rivers, as her eyes are bleeding the
most beautiful colors. she is kissing nothing, she
is gasping for air, i am letting myself crumple. my
sharp corners are filling this room. she fights with
ink, she writes her name up and down my arms,
she is putting exclamation points on my cheeks,
and when i turn, i know she's seen the question
mark on my chest, she's so good at reading my
body language. i have no words left now that aren't
hers, and when she realizes this, she will tear me
apart, she will shred me, she will shed me, she
will forget she once read me, and i will be free.


The Weeks


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