Who doesn’t have a Few secret identities And alter egos?
Nostalgia crumblesUnder the dancing distanceOf who we are now.
You paid in full andThe veil was torn so that weCould be called Your own.
The only mistakesAre never starting and notGoing all the way.
The ultimate act Of unadulteratedLove: His lonely death.
Today my innerChild put her initialsIn fresh wet cement.
They always tell you What you want to hear, thinkingYou’ll believe their lies.
I keep everything On the inside and still share Too much of myself
We are machines thatStore secrets we give awayIn little pieces.
Little bubbles of Space-time pop into being From nothing, by You.
Machines can only Help make you more machine-like; We crave flesh and blood.
How could anyoneEver deny my right toLie to a machine?
A shadow of aDoubt is easier to trust thanAny lack of it.
I have this tinyBelly that I joke is a Baby, but it’s not.
Here we’re all weaponsOf stunning tragedy, soTastelessly crafted.