cutting across, leaving
red lines behind.
Counting them all one more time
I find I am just another cracked barricade
with the rust bleeding through-
the best of fault lines,
but no one else was at fault this time.
She tempted me with White Noise
made from overlapping thoughts
and unclear voices.
Why must I always be at war with myself?
My ears bleed from the sound
yet I break in it’s absence:
I, myself, am a contradiction
one could be driven sane from all the nothing
i gave it its own form of life
I sharpened her knives
I held on to the White Noise
I forget I once craved the silence I leave behind.