Stifled Photosynthesis

I wasn't crying because of the words, I was crying before that, playing to keep me from crying again. Wishing I could peel back my own layers, avoiding the answer I already know. That is why we fall in love, to have someone else skin us to the bone. Tell me, Love, am I fated to carry my false covers until the day I die? Tell me, Love, is it better that I cling to my layers until I can no longer distinguish them from the rotten core beneath, starved of sunlight? Or moonlight, I suppose. That is your usual mode of exposure, is it not, Love? Regardless. I no longer bathe in either. I talk too much of you, I think too much of you, I want too much of you, I want too much from you. Let me steal you and slip you in, away from the spotlight. Am I exposed or adding yet another mutinous layer? Let me smile and tell you too many times the same old stories. Let me name my fractions and feed them to you. If you met me in a dark alley would you run away from my weapons? Or would you know of my inability to wield them? There is nothing I can wield anymore. Not my music nor my poetry nor my innocence nor my excuses. Nothing to fight with. No one to fight for. No opponents, no audience. Just layers and mascara smudges down my cheeks and an intense thirst for more than this, what lies before me.