Your skin is thin, and white
as the paper of your cigarettes.
You look dangerous and clean
like cocaine powder,
harmful and pristine.

Your bloody past is leaking through,
inevitable and red
like the wine bottles winking
in the dim light under your bed.

The sugar that once rushed
through your veins has slowed
and crystallized.

Your green eyes flash and shut,
the flutter of beetles' wings.
You can't bear to open them again,
to face what tomorrow brings.

You can't outrun the truth,
that his eyes were not yet formed.
They will always remain unopened,
and you will always be torn.

From the inside out, you've been scraped bare,
but this is what you chose.
Forever, your stitches will stretch and tear,
and your wounds will never close.