FUCKING PISCES

Cobbled. 
The house with stones, laid wide and
Barely stacked. Thin and grout, the
Ones inside wore a tough skin. 
The same that seek the softest 
Fleece.

Concaved.
Parabolic smiles and phrases turned
Into a bowed, little moon that beats
And blinks. Speaking to the monsters
Living in our chests. Ourselves lurking
Under each, warm
Breath.

Contrived.
Guess we'll just succumb to this thing,
This "fake it 'til you make it" can-do
Attitude. That seems harder to do than
To beg for anything else. Nothing more
Than a false-flag attack 
Of self, fueled by your cool
Indifference.

I'll try my hardest to walk away.
The finger of Neptune will flick 
My earlobe again, again.
I come right back again, again.

Maybe it is nothing.
Maybe it's absolutely unavoidable.
Maybe it really is just nothing.

Instead, it's fucking Pisces.
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