Its a little cold inside this womb you've kept me in, strewn like rose petals
on the grave I had set aside,
for none but my dreams, a well dressed mannequin
burnt hair by hair and a little plastic heart stuck in freedom talk,
and then the placebo comes knocking like the opiate man.
hoping you're inside, stuck like hair to a sweater worn just
before the endless brood and television glare glue ravine,
and you thought every rapid was going smooth,
much like the ocean you had never seen, but heard fables of,
its waves crashing and mumbling into your ears,
sweet nothings and dreams undreamt,
but your gills are now sold and dressed with the half true diamond ring
some man hopes to turn his girl into wife with.
The lastI heard, you had learnt to play 'big eyed fish',
and sing along too.
But now look at you, a motion picture stilled by just
one glance at the mirror.A likely fall into half cooked bliss,
no poison tree or nibbled apple to blame