Friday 3/17/2006 11:39:00 PM

Burnt match sticks. I am humor. I am ridicule.

The sky out there with its heavy folds. The darkness. Looking in.

I don't dare look out.

It's days like these I wish I had a friend.

Or possessed the ability to fashion one out of these slender threads.

Tell me one more time why I should want to live.

Tell me one more time how much you love your life. How happy you are since.

It tastes just like candy when I let myself remember how alone I am. Chocolate coated nightmares erupting from their shells. I wish I could remember how real sugar tastes. Not this chemical shit.

I know how cold winter is in short sleeves. How deep the ink must go to become permanent. I know. I know the way to get there. I just don't know why we'd want to.

Why isn't it enough just to have heard the song. Why must we own it. Yellow match sticks waiting to be red.

It's always on fire. Pierce the cartilage.

There's always room for another hole. Especially in such loose skin.

I'm not looking for it to fit. Just to wait while I try it on. And not be disappointed when it doesn't.


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