maybe, kismet?

in ten out of twelve, we made it out at thirteen, and died in one at vingt-huit we battled against ourselves, one had thought of leaving; a painful fairwell but, was it fair at all? a scent lingered, nostrils filled with fire hands that held roughly, lips should've had kissed softly halfly blind yet it was crystal clear took one step, and there, a Heather did not wish, did not hope tears ricocheted, was it worth any less? for it to be acted just by recklessness ocean cried as a figure swam across, dove in, drowned by own thoughts clawed at my head, a torture to see with eyes closed, planted strelitzia in my bones, hoping it would kill you just the same.