there was never anything of you in me.

This is crazy, with the stars ruling the grass and the dirt  circling in galaxies.  Stars in your eyes and grass on your feet with dirt in your bones.    There are galaxies in you that float  through your veins while cruise ships disgorge remedies for non existent diseases that eat you inside out.  And trees blossom like flowers at your fingertips with monochrome rainbows pouring from your tears.




And that you was me, twisted into backwards states of disgusting beauty.




I have no stars in my eyes but those nailed there by circumstances and false masks there were more true than my own.  The grass on my feet are vines that turn charred and black with misuse and lack of nourishment.  There was never something as clean as dirt in my bones, they are made of something much more vile.  Cruise ships release passengers of poisen and tanker-worthy loads of acid, there was never any cure involved.  There are no trees at my fingertips but fountains of blood, for all I have touched turns sour with cliche endings.  And rainbows never tore thier way from my eyes, monochrome or otherwise.  It was always just a ruse of grief.



And that me was false, and truer than a candlelight painting with soft edges.



For there are no soft edges in you or I, and yet we are made of nothing but them.
And all of this was me, dressed in clouds and sawblades.