You wield knives, sharp ones,
intent on bleeding me to death,
the kind that stab through any defense,
the kind that are made of hope and promise,
the kind that are thin enough
to get between the bars
of the cage that protects my heart,
and slice me to pretty ribbons.
About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
