in between cold sheets and the rising night.
I turn my side while he waits for a reply,
closing my eyes in vain to hide behind the night.
The burn of truth is kinder than the poison of lies,
but I can only whisper mine into the night.
His touch is tannerite to fire I can’t deny,
but he doesn’t know how freedom rings in the night
calling my name to solitude like a sweet lullaby,
the only way I can sleep is alone in the night.
If I asked him to suture these wounds he’d try,
but that duty belongs to me and the night.
He doesn’t know I’d do anything to become the sky
or how hard it is to be held in the night.
On bloodied knees I plea for this feeling to die.
Until it does, I’ll always flee into the falling night.