Sterile masks of happiness.
Gleaming lights of somber.
Rushing words before thoughts catch them.
Tossing and turning.
Back to my left.
Acute angles mirrored by blinding skin.
The taste is sweet, leaving the memory bitter.
This will forever be the day my heart stopped.
From statues back to mere clay
we’ve kept our hands in such a form
I’ve been wondering if maybe
they were always stuck this way.
Holding tight to things we not need.
Covering all the wounds we’ve acquired
from broken arms to grass stained jeans.
But as we grew we found that it was
more of the unseen that made us bleed.