I can't fucking breathe.
I'm suffocating.
My stomach is burning and I can't keep any food down.
I've been drinking water all day, trying to feel better.
My eyes are bloody, and they sting at the sight of light.
My limbs are tired. My fingers numb.
Do you still like my hands?
So tired of playing with this bow and arrow.
So tired.
My throat is tense with tears.
I'm holding back.
I guess I haven't told you that I feel sick, nervous, paranoid,
I've been looking over my shoulder lately.
Things like this aren't supposed to happen.
I want to rest.
To sleep.
I want to light my candles and stare into the flames until there is nothing left inside of me.
Believe me I want to say beautiful things, dangerous things,
Things that will make my heart sink, my stomach tremble, my eyes light up ...
I want to say beautiful things and make you want me, love me, adore me, but I can't.
Not now, my head down, no need to pretend.
I've let all this go too far--not far enough.
What am I like?

Oh I sigh and plead and the girl inside of me blushes in your presence in honest fashion.
I ask you to caress me,
I want you to think that I'm beautiful,
I want you to love me, kiss me, lick me, tease me, feel me.
I want you to embrace me, to lose control, trust in me.
Yet I know that Sadness will be our sweet lover in the nights ahead.
The odds are stacked against us, and I can't stand to lose.

Lying in your arms.
Moaning deliciously as you part my legs with kisses.
Waiting to break the night sky with quiet cries of pleasure.
Forbidden fruit, hidden eyes, the knowledge that comes from knowing there is something more.
Cloaks of secrets sheltering us from the cold.
Our faces hardening.
Childhood aside, we would die.

This beat inside my chest that pounds my reason into dust is growing stronger,
It's making me calloused, making me doubt, making you suffer.
I feel like dying.
I can't stop thinking of what will happen tomorrow,
because I cannot see you tonight.
Tonight I will stare into empty space and curl myself in bed,
holding myself close, keeping the pain at bay,
at least until another day.
Yes.
This is me.

A man who plays a Spanish guitar at noon.
A fire that burns bright, that illuminates the sky.
A large, golden moon above the water.
Iridescent blues and reds on a canvas.
A runaway train.
An accident.
Spilled paint.
Black and white.

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