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So I just sit there with my arms wide.
I think I used up all my good lies.
Oh god, you started losing everything
before you tried to tell yourself to stop.
The sulfur’s serenading your membrane.
I’m staring at the side of your bed frame,
like maybe you could tell me I could put my hands together,
I could wash it all away, and there’s no harm.
No one would ever know.
I wish you’d tell me you could bind it all together,
let it fasten at your sleeve,
but you’re swapping out your stories,
and you think this stuff is working for me.
I’m sorry.
I wish I could agree.
You’re so hollowed out.
You went so far down.
Do you solder breaks
or disintegrate?
Well can’t you take it back?
Well can’t you blame it on a little gap in accuracy?
I guess I’m speaking half truths.
It gets so flattering pretending that you know what I mean.
You were sewing together a narrative,
then you were scratching out the seams,
and I was validating every fabrication you’d weave.
Maybe (Is this)
we could (everything you wanted?)
settle in to watch it all dissolve and fall apart.
Where’d you go wrong?
It’s nothing but a hole in your heart
(Between your hands and the path,)
They’ll notice when it seeps through your arms.
(can you take it back?)