Hate me. There is no shield from the rain falling on me now. If you love me hold me until I cry. I don't want to lose my soul. You can only paint me because my neck can is the canvas. If it is to be blood for shading, shall I open my wounds?
I am on a jet plane of thought soaring all above your earth. Circling until I run out of fuel.
If there is an art to decay I have mastered the skill. I feel replaced. To fall so far from who you used to be never felt so confused and conflicted. I didn't know that's what happened as I clawed for on the opposite side of the same hell.
With each brush stroke you fade more and more to be, not because I want you to but because it is you who wishes to fall from the face of the earth. Your rivers are wide now, pouring down over all the cracks in your skin. Your plains and trees look tired, each blade and blood stained branch hangs with tired eyes and painful memories.
The pilot is crying out:
"We're going down."
