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Fiction
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Queen Of Books
Left your shit for good
through the clock and to the woods
with a map leading to maps
to take you anywhere but here
thinking you might make yourself the
center of the universe
but I know you know, that I know you know
that I know: it's not your fault
But if there was a cure
I'd sort it out
take my resentment back
Practicing your craft
as the walls, they change to red
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what's this taste on the tip of your tongue
and bloodstains 'round your mouth
I can't help but think how
wrong it was, the touch before you ran away
but all this destructive, unrestricted rage
leaves only the stains
If there was a cure
I'd sort it out
take my resentment back
for you to snap out of it...
It takes some civilized words
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