My words are weightless like dead skin falling
into the void within the peeking crevices of your perfection.
(You scratched the scribbles until they screamed, screamed
like forgotten fables overwritten with pointless profanity.)
I poured my clothes onto the floor and the scars glistened
in the light like depression presses onto the corners in your
brain and rosy stains from flowers received, wilted too long ago.
(What are your best memories? My memories consist of drunken
mornings and sober nights, fragments of fleeting feelings written
haphazardly with half-dried permanent marker on clouded mirrors.)
Waiting impatiently for patience to enlighten your mobile device
is just as meaningless as the sweet whispers flashed and compressed
into pixels you cannot caress; my words are weightless like dead
skin falling into the void within the overcrowded crevices of my flaws.
(Lost art is not lost nor forgotten because we metamorphosed into
disgusting beings and we crave to better ourselves, while showering
in mindless conversations and avoidable pollution, worthless corruption.)
You took my world for granted but paid such heavy words to dwell in it.