i've got ribbons tied around my throat, accessorized
Dark eyed bones, if only i could see them like you used to
i'm a walking cliche.
pour water down my cheeks and wipe it away with sandpaper, keep going until i bleed
bleed on your collarbones and grow flowers in the hollow of your throat with the seeds of my affection
Dying poets could find me here, maybe they were right because i am just a metaphor,
i am just a tool to better express every word that you have ever held against me and maybe they were right.
