you think of me as the whore whose hands are tied
these city gates tire relentlessly as our very own sentimentality lingers in the eyes behaving less than the flowers you continue to bring me
i'll make my exit wearing white barren cloth thin me in defiance of their glances press me down below bury me against my own
as when I walk the winter sun dawns carelessly like I am naked in the name of God
I am the lines in your palm thankful for the opportunity to dissect growth in perpendicular fashion
but we are only getting older quieter tired of the taste of thoughts that aren’t even worth our time

I have got to keep an eye behind for my back is bent like wet wood the sting of hands against my face my hair in clumps no I can not judge your height as I am still clenched in a fist holding my retention calling for the forest swimming under the weight - his glory

even the sky is quiet in these moments

HS