Commonplace - Xerxes

I’m trying not to breathe

Tear my discretion out of me

Ground, grit down on my teeth

Turn around, dispute loose tongues, blurted out phrases: sore, corrosive.

Built up, and burned through disguise.

Private matters and blue eyed innocence.

I’m holding my fingers to my skull and no matter how it’s said, it never seem

clear to you.

I’m burning out.

You’re holding up a light in the shape of a flag that burns with the screaming

fear of a love that you can’t understand, with the fear of a love that you

refuse to understand.