Fire In My Veins

In a moment of pure terror of such beauty I'd never seen, her face shone like a million lights without a second chance to start over. She was there and I am here, and I can't explain everything that happened on that city night in the depths of autumn, except that nothing happened and more, and the pure beauty spilt from the openings in her face. Cracks leaking rose petals and shards of heart and broken concepts and half truths. I loved the way it smelt and felt against my cold, bitter lips and ran tongue over teeth to shine high in a sky full of glittering jewels broken in a pitch of darkness with aimless entirety to do just as they pleased. And now I cry for the dead and the trees in the forest rotting to death in a moist, humid environment. Pleasant isn't always pleasant. Shatter goals. Hate hope. Piss off life and beat down it's exterior. You're nobody but a past in the present tense and we'd all kill to be in their shoes while they're dying to be in anyones but their own. They hate the idea of love and the way it's thrust in their ears and mouths and covers their eyes so they're permanently blind. They hate all the unique ways to hate and all the ways we love to take control. So find that humming significance in the quiet study of hated life and bite the tongue of acceptance and sew shut the mouth of defiance because we're all the same and it's all we'll ever be.