BOYS

TIRED EYES

Sometimes I feel like I'm giving too much, like im secreting my heart into your skin, letting it soak up like a dry pavement and a broken sprinkler. Like I can't fathom a greener grass, a clearer day— all that comes is parched throats and cracked hands. I'm burying my hands in 105° sand, scorching under my fingernails, scratching my tongue, my neck, coughing up my lungs filled with glass, filled with tainted gold.
It's all I can do for now, to please your silver fingers that touch the ground and flowers bloom, your fingers that can wilt roses but make sunflowers tower into the air. You can do whatever you please, as long as I have no where to go.

I'm stuck in this cycle of wandering through a desert with a weary heart and tired eyes, ready to give up and fall on my knees; pray to God that one day I will not hurt this much any longer. But He keeps sending me back and back and back until my battered bruised legs are broken into two and my arms burnt up, lusting for darker days. I keep coming back, coming back to this waste land.
All for you, all for you.
Until the end of time, until the night becomes morose and turns to ash and turns down time to come back another day; I'm here, all shattered and torn, but I'm here. For you.