I am done riding the echoes of your voice,
Breathing in between rising waves of anxiety,
Rushing over hot cinders to please you.
Yet, I will continue to stare at this thin wall
Until it grows two eyes
Crafted from shavings of gold
To mimic yours.
Memories will fall
In place of tears,
I become the spinning blackhole,
And your eyes the galaxy.
I will not join your collection of easy trophies
Trapped in the back of your thick skull.