His Gingerbread House

In me is he and he always will be. On the 3rd rack of the worn out wooden shelf, my arms on either side and my head tilted just right. My one leg over the other, he watches me forever. He tells me im the night of his dreams, he calls me the sweetest things till it all gets ugly. I wanna wish upon the stars but I always wanted to fly and now I can barely walk. The last time I felt the ground was when you splattered me. 

The wild blue that extends over me ripped from the cry of me, now is just a silent stream, nearby you washing away the guilt of your ignorance and flowing past to futures I never met. He tells me im the night of his dreams, he calls me the sweetest things till it all gets ugly. He eats me, all of me just like you did on that table in Alwine but you were brutal in a way my heart caved in. And for my welcome, he lets the white roses in the vase kept on the glass table in his gingerbread living room, dry. He tells me im the night of his dreams, he calls me the sweetest things till it all gets ugly.

The jutting crowns to cover the art of your unpractised chiseling trailing my stomach, the ghost dentures on the soft scalp of the dolls. He kisses my forehead everytime he leaves, my arms on either side and my head tilted just right. My one leg over the other as I sit on the 3rd rack of the worn out wooden shelf. 

He tells me im the night of his dreams, he calls me the sweetest things till it all gets ugly.
He tells me im the night of his dreams, he calls me the sweetest things till it all gets ugly.