dear, you.

my dear,
dear you.
you look so pretty.
hips carved
brain is starved
is it you that hates
or is it me?

dear you
are molded to
perfection, see
penetrate, strain and
regression,
in through the eyes to that
sick brain’s perception
but is that you
or is it me?

dear you
seem so fond of marks
obsessed with things
that may not end
as soon as they start
but concerning me,
ive told and will tell that
i am not a beginning.

i am not a beginning.

and dear

i fear you’re stuck with me.
you cling to me.
you shriek and claw
so helplessly
trying to find
another place to go
but you’re alone,
you’re alone
you’re alone.

how i wish i could tell you which way is home.

home.

the word’s like a
blanket,
little fits the
sensation,
but the longing’s so
present
after years or really
seconds
of losing
every aspect
of what you are.

or was it me
that robbed you of them?

dear you.

dear, you.

the pitiful realm of home
is quick to perish.

ill resume in staring
blankly
as you fail

to remember me.