[14] - monday's child.

「 metalmouth ! 」

ghost, ᴍᴇɢᴜᴍɪ ᴀᴄᴏʀᴅᴀ​, 01.56

as i sit like an invalid and stare at the ceiling,

my soul seems void of all emotion and feeling.

a sheen of rain paints the sky,

thunder cries out with the pain of july.

the television emits a pale blue glow,

guns fire in my favourite detective show.

my nerves wrestle with copper wire strings,

whether by pressure's marionette or symmetry's violin.

pearly whites vaguely touched by lydia's charm,

held together by steel and warmth.

tulips in a desert, twin blades racked with shivers;

breathing flames through unfrozen winter rivers.

being overtaken by an internal famine

is a pain like nothing you can ever imagine.

hurt rises with the morning and with the night it descends,

always on the second day; and this is the second adjustment.

for paracetamol died in vain,

through the night my aching will remain.

three weeks after the first, but in four weeks once more,

both my heartstrings and jawline shall be twisted sore.

though again, through verse, i express my distress,

i have been and still am okay, nonetheless.

therefore with orthodontic agony i begin a new page,

in honour of my uneven bite and the start of this age.