Evening Arms

Begging to be hurt, barbed wire rosaries as chains pressed against my throat. A void ever expanding under insincerity, avoiding evening arms and their embrace. Drawing a will to live from hollow promises stiff enough to coax the dead from fever dreams. Hide me from the heaven in your chest. Disguise myself as all I am to be, wrapped in impure images to keep me clean. Slicing through masks with fragile fragments collected at my feet but still unfit to serve as mirrors. Hiding from the heaven in your chest hide me from the heaven in your chest. Walking in circles until one of us is dead. Disguise myself as all I aim to be, emotionless and rid of ammunition. Waters parting in the shape of both our names outlining lives in a hail of bullets raining from above.