butterfly needles and the sputtering of selfish bloodshed
something close to the constant drilling of an alarm upstream occlusions, and the warning signs but something about the perpetual drone makes us ignore the fourth alarm to wake up the doors left open the storm rolling in why do we always belittle the more persistent warning signs? why do we stand when we should run or hide?
Iâm pulling at stitches, scratching at old wounds pulling the sheets just a little bit higher the constant drone is what I live for but it does not live for me
butterfly needles, senseless minute punctures into perfect flesh markedly beautiful, clean and fresh from the outside all is well on the inside, however- welcome to little hell somehow I feel if I poke enough, just enough loss and pain would fill me up
when do we stop resuscitation and call it what it is? when do we push harder, or deeper, or push one more time? when do we close the eyes, and pray to whatever god there is to help guide whatever's left to something better? just as life, death touches all I just canât figure out if it has already visited or I'm ignoring the consistency of the alarms just one more tiny needle, and the swift and amazing grace hopefully, something will fall into place
