You promised you'd be there when I woke up, his quiet voice sifts through my jet lagged unconscious, as a little hand sits softly on my arm. I follow him back into a dark room of jungle animals, but while he is content, I lie awake, riddled with the questions of a life falling through my fingers. I sat on the subway later, watching all the people who look like me and feeling alien to their every sentiment, unsure what to make with the feeling. Taste a new language on your lips, it looks so good on paper, how you could take it home to meet your parents, how it could decorate your home and still your early morning ruminations, but I walk away in confusion. I want to tell you there is darkness here, there is nothing but shattered illusions and you'll cut yourself on my sharp tongue, there's a mire here that will drown you, get out now while you can, do not let my taste on your tongue fool you.
I am not good for decorating your home, I don't even know what home is. I bleed in these streets and will refuse your band aid, let me fall once and for all and be done with it. Perhaps this blood will look better in poetry.
Otherwise, what's the point?
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