I am Dead, but it's not so bad. I've learned to live with it.
I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.
How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.