mumble to me your crushed hearts symphony,
show me the knife of diseased dreams
[which,
at this moment,
begins to suffocate your last rational thought],
purge yourself of your sophistications,
manipulate the irritable perfect cornrows of formality,
whisper your screams of soft remorse into morality's hot breath,
question the broken skies of black canaries,
but above the teasing memories and all else,
listen not to the misshapen words
uttered from the lips of a stranger
called me.
- Heather C., Salt Lake City, Utah, USA