angels, ended up being ambulances.
We’re sick, fuck it. I don’t care.
We’re monsters with scars and February arms,
we’re kids, so we laugh as blood stains my sheets.
And we dance, and we dance, and we fall,
and we scream.
We’re blood brothers, we’re a secret that got out.
We’re broken glass and stitched up arms.
Pretty pink pills, turned
soft pink scars.
Maybe we were transparent,
or maybe half past dead. But
a secret’s anything but with urgent
lights and a knock at the door.
Small room, we were our own
“Oh my baby, I held you tight,
you’re still so young. Come home
come home, I miss your
smile and I’m sorry.”
And they all
cried, and we just held hands.