Byline

[candescentlines]

With thoughts like a string,
You have me hanging by a thread,
Like a puppet waiting for repair,
On your every word and breath and
Red and purple tattooes shaped like unravelling knotted taunts.
Our veins tangle up, stagnating every heartbeat.
So I'll call in sick, with my teeth against the intercom,
A tongue against the scissor blade,
Chin against the kitchen chair,
Ready to put an end to this mess.

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To be honest, they don't feel like my words.