I know that I mean nothing to her:
I might as well be dead at heart.
And so a sea of knives cuts through my flesh
Straight to the ancient roots of bone.
Her tone of voice is mockery in needles:
She adds the salt to open wounds
As one would insult to injury
And gains strength from every broken promise.
My breath is with the wind now:
An unsustainable idea at large.
I fade from grey to black to white
As childhood memories from frameless pictures.