Strapped into my historySewn into my fleshGrind my bonesIn the dust of our friendship I’m creating all of theseBeautiful romantic thingsFor no one but myselfThat was never the plan Haunted by the memoriesIf the perfect parts of youWe’re actually realLiving inside my fantasiesSome kind of self torture What an acrid perfumeSomething of a coarse natureBlinding me with backhanded loveLike some dark magic This deep longing or homesicknessBeyond a place or time thatNo longer exists—or perhaps never did Turning on the…