It's feverish isn't..
the way your heart wrapped around your head,
And swallowed you whole,
There's nothing left behind,
In the gentle canal,
Flushing you down,
Along with all that's left of what is and isn't.
Questions are haunting,
And are considered sins,
So they sit on the tip of my tongue and burn,
Tasting foul and rotten,
Like sour milk,
And I choke- desperate to spit them out
Only to swallow them back down again.
Along with despair comes deprivation-
Your love couldn't hold true enough.
A vicious cycle that bites at your ankles and leaves the tides dry,
And the sand angry
... But not angry enough,
To not to miss your footsteps across it.
Violence rings in your head,
Like a singing chorus,
Reminding you why you left.
The feeling of it all is crushing,
Leaving my own ribs stabbing out of my flesh,
And my burdens dragging behind me,
Holding on by their bruised fingers,
Why
have they never learned how to let go,
And into the water,
Again,
I go.
Desperate,
Somehow having convinced myself that the answer lies somewhere under the surface,
And with it pulling me in deep,
Maybe
I will be washed clean.
I pray
I will be washed clean.