Palm Of My Hand

Sketches on the pale flesh

Shaded in with a black pen.

Swallow your words,

They don’t mean a thing.

Letters you wrote to no one

Rip into pieces and throw in the fire.

Pens run out of ink,

And I run out of energy.

Restlessly I lay down

And take everything you give me.

Let the rain fall on us,

And let the needles pierce our skin.

Hook the paperclips together

And wear them on your wrist.

Sketch out random daydreams

On the palm of my hand

Because the paper rips so easily.