Forgiveness doesn’t look the way I’d hoped,
and love isn’t welcome beyond this troubled ease.
I made my bed, in which I must humbly sleep,
and it must be the only bed in which I ever do.
I need to begin to see adventure as
a lonely venture, full of platonic tease.
That you might go far away from here,
I shank you through and through.
Stabbed three hundred sixty-five times
hoping silent years brings joyful beginnings.
Sticky blood stains murderous hands
I failed to make a better you,
Close your eyes, bid you adieu,
Die now, my sweet, sweet fantasies.