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Split
Drowning within nectar, sweet,
A burden bears upon torn wings,
A secret love; a lie to keep,
“Goodnight,” whispered; eternal sleep.
Both hope and love,
Taunting from above,
Both heart and mind
Are no longer mine;
Drowning within nectar, sweet,
Attempting to fix unbroken things,
A sensation I may no longer keep—
Wrapped forevermore in scarlet strings.
A puppet and slave to such trivial things,
Around my limbs, thread is tightening,
Tying, burning, to you, I’ll cling—
But it’s still there, and, still, it stings.
Tears, cried of fake trust,
Born of things I hate, but must,
No need to tell, for I already know;
I’ve uncovered my feelings, buried under snow.
Our love’s saturating,
Your feelings are fading,
Mosaics are breaking—
Why can’t I stop faking?
A game of Cat’s Cradle,
Once loving, now fatal,
Hearts, hand in hand,
Intertwined, now, we stand—
It makes no sense;
Oh, why can’t I see?
Who am I now,
And who shall I be?
Untying my past,
Killing, silently,
Smiling, at last—
“Goodnight, other me.”
I believe that self-love makes either the sweetest comedy or the worst of two tragedies, and this is my take on the latter.