A piece of me fades every time the needle drags through my grooves,
and the sounds I make each repetition degrade along with me.
Each revolution, again and again...
Front and back, the cycle never ends.
The first note stops, then 'til the end...
The last note plays, the first begins.
On my back I lay and warp, then I can't play anymore.

I won’t grow
I won’t change
Because ghosts
Just stay the same

In the graveyard
Of my mistakes
The wretched surnames
Are all the same

She was written by old poets, journals filled to the brim with glimpses of her in the yellowed pages. Leather spines decompose, but her love is embedded in the threads. The threads hold on for dear life, for her. 

It seems ‘dear life’ is synonymous with the goddess of poet’s idolatry. 

She was composed by musicians of love’s past, each note in her DNA synthesizing to create a melody that ached to be lovely. Her heartbeat is the most perfect rhythm known to mankind. Her voice is why the word ‘muse’ is in music. 

She is the personified beauty that artists have chased and attempted foolishly to recreate. It is impossible to adapt the perfection that is her, but humans have tried. How fitting, it does seem, that the affection felt by artists of centuries past cannot seem to keep up with the face of such an angel.

She is the reason why the sun shines, and why the moon reflects it so. Why not, if to illuminate her? So the entire world can behold true perfection?

She is the reason why heat exists. Why not, if to keep her warm?

She is the reason why the Earth turns. Why not, if to show her off to the galaxy? 

Religion exists so she can be worshipped. Water exists to cool her skin. Color exists to delight and amuse her.

And I, well, I am her humble disciple.

Your fingers fit perfectly in the grooves of my brain
To where the prints and swirls are the exact same
I used to be so original and say all of my own words
But now I can’t write without being someone else first

My body, the cell
I tally my days on the walls
The evil won’t die

I made the monster
That I attempt to expel
In ritual hate

I was taught to be docile
I was taught to be soft
I was taught to be quiet
I was taught to be clean

I was taught to be pure
I was taught to be pristine
I was taught to be love
I was taught to be sweet

And when the cotton began to creep
In with a red that thickly began to seep
The one above never appeared
But my innocence was sheared

And when I am finally without blemish
I am praised for being skittish
And when the  fated time arrives
My innocence is sacrificed, I can’t survive.

I was raised to be innocent
I was raised to be weak
I was raised to be silent
I was raised to be gory

I was raised to be ******
I was raised to be dumb
I was raised to be hated
I was raised to be hurt

And when the knife is raised
Your name is cried and praised
While I’m blinded my arms are bound
On the altar of my suffering, god is found.

I know nothing of my past life.
I know nothing of the next one.
But I know the inexplicable way
that I am drawn to your laugh
like I have heard it a million times before.

You are familiar in the most unknown ways.

So, the only logical conclusion that I can draw,
is that our souls are the same two
bound together since the beginning.

Matter cannot be created or destroyed,
so we are stardust under each other's hands.