I tell you my cells are turning parasitic
and the bones of my will are arthritic, weakening,
that the tears shed over my (help!)lessness
are baptizing me in the wine of guilt.
I tell you I'm sinking like a pretty ship capsizing
in the calm sea,
and that my burnt forest has no trees
to break the silence.
I tell you I'm oscillating with an amplitude of desperation,
so don't look as if my broken eyes are inspiration
for your sympathy,
teetering on the edge of pity,
second by second.
You, you say that I'm wasting time and tears.
You say you'll whisper love back
even if I maim you with my fears.
You say it's just a little step,
"Show me your heart, let me in."
Even though we both know
that passively smoking on my grief can kill.
So I won't let you set foot in my heart,
lest you find it is much like stepping in quicksand.
I won't let you explore the crumbling card houses of my mind,
because your innocent feet will set off my land mines.
I won't let your sympathy race
at the velocity of my trembling knees,
when my feet freeze, center stage.
Because, you nosy little hypocrite,
it's hard to feel your way in the dark with closed eyes.
But it's even harder to open your eyes to the light
and find out you are blind.
So I won't let you sing me lullabies
when the bough of my dreams is breaking.
I won't let you paint me a fairy tale ending
when I'm raking through memories
to find a time I loved, instead of forsaking.
I sure as hell won't let you stitch my seams together
when the very fabric of my worn soul
is disintegrating,
thread by thread,
second by second.
The tears on my pillow stain my nights.
and it's been so long since I've had a sunny day,
but now I've learned to walk in the rain,
and now I've learned to sing duets with the pain,
fear strangling the pale hope in my veins.
Cell by cell,
second by second,
I disintegrate.
I'm a tenth of an inch away from weeping
and a tenth of my will away from breaking
and I'm still disintegrating,
but you tell me a tenth is enough to hold onto.
You tell me the night will open up into dawn,
and that the hand that tends the rose
is all the more beautiful for the scratches of the thorns,
...and that my soul is a rose.
So maybe, just maybe,
I'll let that rose grow.
Second by second,
hour by hour,
day by day.
Maybe, with you,
because now I know you saw prisms in my shattered eyes
and threw in handfuls of love
before I saw the colors dancing inside me.
Maybe with you,
because now I don't want you to step out of my heart
(though I'm not sure when you stepped in.)
Maybe with you, second by second.
Maybe then,
each second will feel like my first.
