Clandestine Pestilence


She wants imperfect?
Then I'm perfect for her,
Can't cover it up,
too late now
I'm her style of beauty; just her style
I know I'm just a faint memory,
shoved to the back of her mind

it hurts to be awake,
to remember the field we ran through
I ran past later holding back more than I could handle,
choking each word out breath by breath

I tattooed my eyes with her memory,
can't cover it up

drowning her out with little blue pills.
Honestly, can she believe they really work?
I can't.
That's because I'm her mermaid
and the little blue pills dry me out.

She is the pestilence tearing me down,
filled with clandestine followers,
and a kiss on the playground.

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