folklore

you’ll tell this story differently,

every time i ask

details rearranging

tangled up inside your mind

you’ll tell this story differently

every time i ask

paint the faces on my skin

and hand me the photographs in a leather bag, to carry

cause your memories never stay still for very long

bending and breaking

stiff to the touch, porcelain

on the shelf look but don’t touch

don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch

tiptoe over the bleeding sores

bandage wounds; never yours

it’s not asking for much

to chart a muddled-up mythology

of hospital beds and tragic loves

of people i’ve never met; they are monsters

and angels, staring right through me

you tell this story differently 

every time i ask, twisting up the wires

and forgive me, but sometimes it’s hard not to wonder

how much time we’ve got left

before the ceiling buckles beneath the weight

before the roof melts beneath acid rain

and i’m the only one left to remember what has been

and this folklore will wrap around my wrists

grow up along my throat

my bleeding trachea; my tender, desperate hope

bind me to my deathbed, oh god i’m all alone

whatever i had, all that’s left is me

and this rotting piece of rope

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