Staging The Bullets

Brushes the forearm. Too much skin. Chase the wrist. Not enough blood. And there I stand wearing the image. Like some rerun that won't end. Every decision was so long ago. Now I am left with only the remains of what I chose.

They tell me I am beautiful, but how can I believe them when I know it's untrue. Everyone is a liar when they want what you possess.

Everyone is your friend when you know what they don't.

They'd buy you if they could, but when they can't, they'll just take you.

I'd worship the devil if I thought he was real. But since I don't I'm stuck with these ordinary demons. Sore benefactors of my grief.

I'd fly if only it didn't require wings. I'd live again if I thought for one second there was a reason.

Just turn over that mattress. Everything we need to know lies underneath.

We lay in our stolen skins and reminisce about the hunt. As if they belong to us now. But killing it won't make it ours. And neither will saving it.

We staged every bullet until dying had no meaning.