the edges peel off every once in a while;
i stick them back together,
press my thumbs down, say i've fixed it---
but it's peeling, fraying,
sliding apart at the seams;
the blurry edges of my vision make me nervous,
make me shake and worry
(i am marble-cut and resolute,
somehow, i'm okay with sentences like puzzle pieces
"you're not okay"
it's addiction, you know,
"this is love"
is this love?
is this ever going to change?
my symptoms are showing
(stage directions: clench fists and
beat holes in the floorboards;
be careful of the bones, they're thin now,
plaster dust packed in a chalky mess
too brittle to serve as framework anymore,
the knees collapse together, tired lovers
sick of swinging back and forth)
act one, scene one:
i never meant for this to happen,
"i don't love you"
the scenery is bleak and minimal,
the cast is laid along the floor in tombstone rows,
players for the damned,
hissing whispered syllables