The bent
The theorem
The stench of unwashed fantasies
Our side
My gaucherie
My amnesiac tastebuds that glitter with an unalloyed desire for a chaste taste of aftermaths
Your miniaturized self in my vessels
Your stentorian glares of harm
Your sanguinary clutch at my reason
Your fingernails scraping down my skull
You
You are growing on me and my chagrin-stained sheets are growing on you
And these arteries, darling
They are leaking
I think you are thinning down my blood
I think I am bleeding out
I think my blood needs help to clot
Oh, God, where are the platelets when you need them?
The peccadillo
The allegation
The reek of my uncleaned reveries
Our side
My indie pops
My tranquilizers
Your psychedelics
Your distant memories of memories
Your aesthetically anesthetized recapitulation
Your unenlightenment
My love
Your obliviousness
My bruised ego
You
You are growing on me and my chagrin-stained sheets are growing on you
And these arteries, darling,
They are leaking
I think you are thinning down my blood
I think I am bleeding out
I think my blood needs help to clot
Oh, God, where are the platelets when you need them?
Oh, God
Oh, God
Oh, God
@Revivan