And as this new life passes in blood stains
I do not feel as though I have wasted the potential to create.
With every full moon I cut through my urges to be alone,
I medicate the feelings of losing control, of fading my old self.
I feel my new wings beginning to prick through
with goose pimples becoming more apparent.
This fire blooms with memories
like gun shots we've sped towards the sky.
I'll leave this fog and take your hand,
you will whisper with your ocean green eyes
and lead us through.
We will both be piggy backs
stuck with glue.
