Blisterfists Poem by Jamie Dewyer

i can feel how the kite is torn
her hands have five scabs on them
we wait for the sun to end
then winter kills again

remember...
that soul, that choice
anger the function to annex the voice
she is whispers now
only smoke tendrils that face chase the ground
in a swirling cloud
i'll be the dead one if you save me now

she has estrogen
stored in her lungs like a thief with a pin
i cough blood and love
spray all the earth with a desperate spin

i hope you reconcider giving up
i think we both know it is in your best intrest to give up

these spells will not heal you but i hope to make you empty