Crippled by sin of a second nature
Nurture, heaven and home
Move with the motion of tongues and tide
Born beside kings
Silver and gold
Silicone sweet
Plastered with empathy
Healed by loyalty
Reflect of steel and stone
Since the dawn of the age of the innocent ones
The indigo children
*The indigo children

I drowned my will to live
in the bathtub across the hall
It didn't put up much of a fight
It didn't seem to mind much at all

We spent our youths
sleeping in empty bathtups
because we like the way it
makes his memory echo
through the silence,
the way syllables got
trapped beneath the taps.
And we only paid
attention to abandoned buildings
when we became one.
But we never had someone
around to tell us that
the objects in the mirror
are less depressed than
they appear.
So we keep reciting bedtime
stories and dryheaving
scattered sensations because
saying his name feels
like chocking down bleach
but it hurts less than
knowing no amount of time
spent staring passed empty
doorways will bring him back.
No one told us that goodbyes
taste like the back of a
postage stamp and no one
told us that coming home
feels a lot like drowning.
Every year for Halloween
we dress up as the versions
of ourselves that were in love
with the way their skin
looked in the day time
and we sit
outside upon the porch
hoping we'll walk out and
leave our heartless archetypes
behind.
No one told us that loving
would be like playing
the piano for someone who
can't hear,
or that it would remind us
of the way we felt the first
time we dropped our ice
creams as a kid.
So we're trapped finding
colours in the shadows
on the ceiling and
we keep storing secrets
in our cigarettes.
Because we just can't seem to
find our place
in this world and
we swopped a one bedroom
apartment for a bloodless
bag of dark hair and
dislocated words.
We curled our spines
into shapes that resemble
hurricanes
because all we see
between our bones is
substance for natural disaster.
We lost hope the moment
she hurled from our van
and we've been searching
inside drug stores
ever since.
So excuse us,
for we smell of death
and cheap wine.
And our clothes are stained
from loss and citric acid,
but if you let us limp
our way passed,
you may learn the lesson
your mother never had
the nerve to teach you