Time Past

There is a second skin on my back, 

the cloying agony of cutesy dreams and 

bluebottle love.  

Where the bumps in my spine curl 

you slot your fingers, 

hanging on for passion and persecution, 

desire for another and 

not for myself.  

You cling to what you need and 

leftovers abandon you, 

faulty, raw, 

flaws of a fairy on 

a rooftop.  

I am not your model. 

A muse to behold when others 

walk our way, 

the credit I pay pity 

in your bright eyes.  

I am screaming inside and 

cannot say why.  

You live alone and 

want me there.  

You explore and discover and 

feel I lack affection 

because you want someone else.  

My broken entity is heartless: 

and happy memories only make me 

Cry.