it’s eight o’clock in the morning and i ask you if
you love her
and you say “um” and
i just kind of grimace because it’s so early and
hearing you still stutter over the places
she left burning on your skin
as if you were her ashtray
just makes my heart chug like a steam-powered train
and god help me but i know i’m barely more
than a speck of dirt to you, some kind of
decomposer so your death doesn’t have to be so slow,
some kind of fungus that’s grown up between your toes
but you’ve kept around because you like how it
hurts you know once you told me
“i feel like mold gets a bad rap”
and i feel like the mold that’s growing over all the
damp fingerprints she left behind

i mean you choke on the bits of her
still left in your throat
how are you supposed to even say my name
when you can’t even get air to your lungs i mean
i was supposed to be your something-special
and most of the time i wake up and find
you’re at the other side of the bed,
nightmaring about her again

and god, i don’t know,
it’s eight o’clock in the morning
and you still make me think the kind of thoughts
that belong to
3 a.m.

Be careful or he’ll turn you into a toadstool /// r.i.d (via con-ceal)