Hurt

My hands feel so rough.  
Fingernail beds. Landfills of filth.    
My soles dripping hot tar,    
So easy, they fall-off-the-bone.    
Hornets congeal in the cocoons,    
Where butterflies used to be.    
    
The stench alone, poisons ten thousand trees.    
     
No, I don’t want to be the one to get hurt.    
     
The Earth could be fuming,    
With the daring veracity of its own mantle,    
Cracked up like a rotten child,    
Sizzling its flimsy chicken skin    
To blacker than burnt,    
But sworn from soul to surface,    
I’ll never choose to face such    
Calm,    
Cordial,    
Cocoa brown eyes.    
     
Rejecting me.    
     
--I love you.    
     
No,    
I don’t want to be the one to get hurt.    
     
Moving on is like pushing saltwater into an endless sea.    
     
I keep thinking that    
“Everyone needs water to survive,”    
So I can take the final swig,    
To end it all.    
But,    
     
How the fucking hell am I supposed to be fucking sane about you?    
When around me, you speak, so fluently.    
     
No.    
I don’t want to be the one to get hurt.    
     
I flail my arm across the nightstand.    
The alarm flicks off.    
     
What better time to say that,    
This is all just a dream, after all.