My skin crawls fervent; horrified — and the sound it makes is Morse. The code intones the following words: “It’s over, it happened — It’s Done.” Some say comfort is luxury And my flesh? Derelict. But if will truly comes from ones heart, then the braille on my breast says "Go on."
Whisper sweet, gentle; speak as if you are autumn breeze & sea salt in waltz. Spew not vitriol (that black oil over virgin blue) reject the poison of sharp tongues & double-edged oaths. Though satin your voice, intent is fire: don't damp your manifesto.
If wit cuts yours eviscerates and I am holding in my intestines, keeled over on ashen, craggy knees. One day, I may say you once shell-shocked me but the stitches in my side will have never gone away: you that sewed me whole will have split me open with a laugh.