• do we do it on purpose? or is it a mistake the way the tempers collide with all the force of a shooting star but the fire is all for naught we destroy bridges every chance we get there is no reward, but there is so much pain the kind that blindsides you three moths later when you've almost forgotten the moment itself almost, but not quite you can sew it up but you still see the tear and then tomorrow night maybe everything will be fine we will laugh perhaps, not speak of grief recover a bit, bury the resentments but even invisible, they are still harmful like a gun hidden beneath the waistband no one sure but the owner when the shot will explode but we are all waiting or i am atleast it could be i suppose, that the rest just don't notice they're too busy turning their mole hills to mountains and though i try to observe something pricks at that tender place on my spine and i have to defend im too good at fighting to let the blood flow seemlessly but somehow, it is only i who come away unscathed though i am equally at fault they are all screaming while i am as silent and stoic as a vigil i feel nothing they say i don't care, but they're wrong i do i just don't let it show and that my friends, that is the key

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