Books scattered like limelight in a house of occupants
Suffering in the premises where my nostalgia is
Pages tattered like the clothes I always used to wear;
Of colors I won’t touch now and material that tears

The spines are bent on words that I will never again love
Words I do not want to write on paper suffering of
A lack of pigment, white. In memories ashamed
In hearts that can’t be satisfied and minds that won’t be tamed

Dark like aversion therapy. The band around my wrist
That is ripped back and tried again for every time I’ve missed
Grass, in dew. the summer nights I suffer on my sheets
Whispering in the dark in my difficulty to breathe

My fingers caught in webs. Like spiders in their traps
Confided in their own world and couth in their own wrath
Strangled like the syllables I manage and assure
It’s been so long and I don’t want to know that anymore