The Hubble Telescope

It's kinda strange how fast you can leave the city going 80 miles an hour. I mean sure I duct taped your foot to the gas pedal, but I also gave you a knife to cut yourself free if you wanted to. But I watched your tail lights shrink. 

This thick skin was just waiting to be good for something. And you thought your sharpest knife should definitely be that something. You lodged it into my left lung, knowing fully well that the left one was the weak one. That the left one was the one that collapsed. That the left one still had problems....and so did the right one. 

I haven't had my albuterol in a bit too long now. 

I want to know what it feels like to be the brick and not the window pane, I guess this time you were both. 

The thing is you were always both, both the victim and the antagonizer. When ever it was convenient you played victim, made me feel sorry for you. When ever you could make me feel weak you'd be the antagonizer. 

Glass shards are always pretty until the thing they cut bleeds too much. And darling I'm bleeding out,

Working faster to tie that tourniquet 

Shaking 

Trembling 

Trying to breathe

Tie it tight so I keep the red

Tie it right or I'll end up dead.  

Trying to tie an armband. 

I can't tie it with just one hand. 

You know I'm not ambidextrous 

I know I shouldn't have messed with this. 

But I guess every hate poem is rhetorically a love poem. 

So We sat in the moons craters at 5 in the morning smoking cigarettes. Which is kind of ironic because without oxygen in outer space, we were still trying to squeeze the last bits of air out of our lungs. And the spaces between your fingers were filled with, well, space, cuz that's where we were, space. We floated amongst the Asteroids and they called us UFOs, but we weren't  unidentified, we just didn't like labels. 

The sun disappeared and I forgot to look at it. The sky is just a tragically beautiful graveyard, and we're carving our own tombstones with black burnt knifes. 

Your pollution is filling my nostrils and seeping into my bones

...But I always thought pollution was pretty. It left a dusky haze over the city and made the world seem not so harsh.  And that pollution catches the prayers from the city, blocking them from ever reaching heaven. 

He throws tantrums like a volcanic two year old. 

He pokes bruises and his mouth is a fountain that spouts lies,

But I guess every hate poem is rhetorically a love poem. 

His eyes were the Hubble telescope. 

And the Hubble telescope looked down again. 

At the Stars in our strands.