From the duvets of undivided procrastination
I allow myself a narrow glimpse into the fertile garden of my flaws,
through the shadowed, omnipresent remorse, I can read a story
it goes-
she lets herself grow through others
she waters herself from the sins they tried to forgive,
her unholy chest is unknowingly accustomed to jumping from one friend to another
she is a slut-
bred of the worst kind.
she cannot keep her mouth shut
and yet her quivering mind bloats of all the things she thinks she deserves-
all those things that she does not give.
she takes warm pride in stealing the sunlight that nurtures those around her
and she smiles when she shines amongst the graves of those
moldy, mourning, all dead!
these sorrow pits were once her friends.
but her undulating mind
is keen on new necessities
and it forges a happiness
from the scathes of a burning heart, a useless muscle
This plunder, plunging into memories repressed from regression
all surface like morphine,
the art of being self-aware can only be mastered by a corpse.
I feel drowsy and drugged.
Am I in heaven yet?
