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Here's an ode to the things we can't control, |
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how they take hold of us |
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like fuel to our lust, |
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gasoline in our guts, |
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touch a spark and let the flames grow |
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If I tried to describe it, would you understand |
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or would you feign sympathy and wait for it to pass |
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I never asked for this, maybe its what I deserve |
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Too weak to control it, left only to purge |
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You never saw its true face, |
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so you couldn't see the fatigue |
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not so much that I needed sleep |
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just how some things make you weak |
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so you don't notice the blood until the knife is twisting |
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But I recall, in the emergency room |
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with the curtains pulled, |
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how you said you knew, but you stopped. |
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And I don't need an answer for why |
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I guess you learned not to pry, |
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my pain taught you to cut yourself off. |
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But I can't, and it hurts |
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First its clear, still cold in my throat, then my lips |
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then its black, like spitting up smoke from the fires in my lungs |
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then it comes, and its thick and its red and it comes and doesn't stop |
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my insides all cut up, bleeding out |
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Thats how it feels, thats what its like to give up. |
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And I've been giving up |
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Its like I'm hardly alive |
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Trudging through nothing to the other side. |
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There's no point; I'm sick of trying. |
