The Cross-Eyed Static-Making Machine

I would
For you,
Cross the velvet sky
And risk melting my Icarus wings
Just to bring you home
In a trail of gasoline doused feathers.

Self-destruction has become my art form.
And the brush strokes I make
Range from far too thin
To a thickness so great it almost
Swallows me from the inside out.

I will try my best
To make it back home
In the least amount of pieces;
That’s all I can do.

My scars will always be part of
The definition of me.

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