Words are leaking from my eyes,
I can feel the cold stream on my face.
Pull the trigger on your camera
And kill the second of my time, at least now.
Limbs are getting colder, am I dying?
Slowly turning into a monochrome picture
On the wall, I still struggle to understand the limits
Of my own confusion.
I can’t feel the colors anymore,
Voices are more distant,
And the blades of your sight are blurring the image.
Don’t fold the picture,
Put me in the scrapbook I made a while ago,
And leave it on my desk, where it has always been.