+ we're all burning martyrs +

Shred the turning leaves
in your fingertips. The cocoon
unfolds its gentle warmth, and
beckons for your
return.
She’s only a blue
Bird for so long.
Her meek voice holds
Tiny pointed nails,
Rusted and
Worn.
We
Are
Now
Nothing
At
All.
These silken tides can
See the falseness dripping –
Honey dripping – from your
Sweet, golden core.
My lies are my pillow.
They allow me
To dream
And never
Wake up.