with a gun disguised as this pen
cause bad-luck boys don’t sleep
when good-intention girls dream
too tired to write,
too scared to sleep
they say time will heal
all my wounds
but i’m out of time
and these wrists are bleeding
memories of you
in bed by four in the afternoon
cause even overdramatic poets need their sleep
up by midnite to commiserate
to write about her while she doesn’t dream of me
sleep and you are a mystery
cause there’s no cure for your memories
god damn all these memories
of you
too tired to write,
too scared to sleep
they say time will heal
all my wounds
but i’m out of time
and these wrists are bleeding
memories of you