
I was never the fruit you wanted
to bear. I was never the fruit that
you wanted to pick.
Now the thought of you makes me angry.

Nothing ever remains unknown. We know this.
Sooner or later, the winds will change with us,
and us with it.

People should not have been created;
so perfectionistic,
sounding so pinched,
so distant from emotion.

There's not much of that,
now, out here,
where every form of solitude is flawed,
Faithless.

There is a pulse—
And what’s behind
is no longer tangible.

"You can be what you desire,"
Doubt utters
From your lips
But its wicked mouth is that
Of a different language

When you face forgetful grief
You should teach it not to
Rain on you,
And soak you in sorrow