Inflicted

Disaster at my fingertips, yet again,

flame ridden digits, riding against the wind,

I call myself sin, for the sake,

of not being forsaken,

or some other cursed rationalization,

Bedridden, stricken with commas,

leaving me comatose,

she is the sheen,

the wreathe of the sheathe,

the witch of the blade,

Hiding beneath the trees,

among the bees,

searched for within the seas,

look around, we were everything,

Love.