The histrionic manner in which I live my days,
Is pronounced in every sentiment; in each withered sigh and gaze,
Melodrama may, pull you away, but it's all you'll let me keep,
As my spinal column rots away while you lull in guiltless sleep,
Like my adored Saturniidae, as they flit inside their cage,
Tearing fragile wings like paper; can you hear each splitting page?
Till their stores of fat begin to shrink and the dryness splits their skin,
Will you turn your nose up in disgust when my burst corpse shows you what's within?
Will all the flies and maggots writhing in my gentle heart,
Be a statement to the ravages of time we spent apart?
Or will this somehow be my fault and only mine alone,
As you shirk back to delusion and you raise your walls of stone?
Babe let me make this promise- I won't let it end that way,
If I finally break from all this damage; it's in reality you'll stay,
I will seep like ink of India into every rose-shade thought,
And I'll linger there upon your skin as an ever-present rot.