conflicted.
am I.

skin- like canvas
I treat late nights
like dead poetry- now days.
reading too deeply
and feeling too much.
when the ink
still stops
at the surface.

tasting bitter.
the sting of waking
and that skin
like canvas- untouched
I break metaphor
between each
fluctuating- breath.
my fingers twitch
and my chest-
it caves.

so.
I drink to
the art of falling.
watching pieces
stumble. and listening
to the static
in those late night breaths.
and that canvas.
it's looking more like skin.

and I stumble.
with words treating
past-tense like
a storybook. the longing
forms circles
in paint strokes.
and that skin. it breathes
fire.
with these late night
breakdowns.
creating landscapes.

and that canvas.
it screams
perfection.