Wounds of a Seamstress
I feel in me a wound lined with thorns
This wound I carved myself in your memory
Protruding dreams have torn it at the seams
In this wound is a craze only I feel fit
It lays so softly beneath my chest
I rest, only to feel it in my sleep
A steep, creaky staircase to the land of make-believe
Amaranth and dahlias coated in cigarette and stardust
I will be found here exposing my wound to the sun
Talking to the void in the sky, looking for a guide
Crying because I'm the only one here
I hold a flame to my tired heart
Singeing it slowly, as if I were waking a beast
It aches with bruises of cowboy boots and radium scars
Deteriorating, leeches feast on me
Imploring to be free of the cycle, I must be through weaving baskets of you
That hold nothing but a vague picture of infatuation
Still I'm tweezing reflective shards from my bosom of what could have been, be sorting with ancient bliss and purity
The mirror of what is-- finally broke inside of me
- 𝒟𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝐿𝒶𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒
