you'll never climb inside of me. and if you do, you're out of reach, breathing in reality, groping for hoping violently. blindly. you'll never get me to confess. instead you'd get me to undress, i love you but i hate the mess you leave me in when you leave me. and leave yourself in me. censorship and propriety; you'll cover me then lie to me. i never lied to you, my darling, riding rodeo comets through plaster ceilings was never something i classified as chance of a lifetime. but here you went anyways, casting me in all your plays, and i always was the last to die, curtain call and time i cry. tossing flowers at my feet, i've long been dead, but pretense is sweet.