What are you going to do when this shit comes shrieking back to life? When my mouth is more battle wound than betterment? Each time I catch fire is more ground given, my hands and feet vantablack and voiding the light. What are you going to do when I burn the only pieces left to hold on to? When I am ropes of soft charcoal, a carbon powder stain coughed into your lungs, dusted fine and muting the bright of your eyes? When it’s a fistful of white coals and shredded metal?
You’re going to let go and I’m going to let you.