You can't crown yourself in thorns, heart forever broken by the tragic beauty of your intellect. Artistic and aloof, emotionally dire and out of control. Teacups to hold your change, a novel nod to former
civilization, to secrets and skeletons, tucked away. But there, there.
Like the bare bones of your fleeting and indefinite dreams. And how could they amount to anything when you've condemned them, an unliftable weight. Grind the bones to dust and use silk to spin them into the quilt of your past, only be careful the company you keep under it, in your no-mans-land bed with your wounded, tired heart. Be careful who you drape and warm in the mistakes you wear like badges and bangles. You'll leave them struggling to breathe as they outrun a past which isn't theirs, blindly stepping on twigs and moss hoping to put a foot right on the ground you've laid, not knowing which log to weather the storm in, not knowing which trap will leave them strung up and out, trapped by the selfishness of your ever-present memories.