you lie in bed and encourage your eyes to 

surround yourself with infatuation and glass dolls,

broken yet infinitely see-through.  you scrawl

novels onto the ceiling until your fingernails cry 

roses, until you pass out somewhere you belong.



you'd rather make money by stealing girls 

and kidnapping their innocence, but the only steady income

is emotions riding on the crest of a wave, ready to plow

through the ground and be forgotten. 



but it doesn't matter, because you love the calm before

the thunderstorm (at least when you're asleep)

and more erosion won't collapse you now. spending

time on bonding strengthened your footholds

enough to suffer being walked over again and again.



your dad would be spinning in his grave if he was dead

because this isn't a loreal advert and wearing khaki

doesn't make you worth the effort,

you couldn't fake yourself through basic

even though we both know you killed god.