Sins of an Erratic Heart

Again, I write
  on crumpled paper-skin.
Darker inks are deeper scars.

I'm fading
  in and out of words,
fading, in
  and out
like the sunsets
  and a ceiling fan
and an empty bottle spinning.
So before these memories
swirl and fade,
let me write all
on crumpled paper-skin.

Three lines, with my name on it.
Three lines, with my hate on it.
Three lines, with all my tears,
and the last lines bearing love.