pockets and/of hell

You carried hell around in your pocket like it was something to impress your friends;
I could taste it on your lips the entire time.

Ordinarily I'd be terrified to disappear like that,
to drop off the face of the earth.

But disappearing with you felt like the greatest honor known to mankind.

It was an honor to disappear into that unknown universe,
to write that language we did.

It was nice to be unheard, unseen for a little.

Now I carry around hell in my pocket,
and I can't show it off the way you do.

It's no badge of honor for me,
it weighs me down at times.

But you pinky swore carrying around a pocket of hell never hurt anyone,
and you seem pretty okay to me.

I just keep praying you remember those words I said to you;

If you died,
I'd.