missing digits; interlocking fingers

your soul
is a bright cold day
in april

but not even I
could bring myself
to betray you in 101

smashing pumpkins through nietzsche's eyes

dear blue eyes, my patience
exhaled its last gasping breath
at our finish line as if tonight
tonight could somehow
rebuild my dependency
on other people's insecurities

so I write to my irises in an attempt to
discolor-discredit-dismantle my past
like a fiction; but my pupils have taught me well
and the only gaze that remains is a watchdog
lest I turn into a monster