my head is full of scratched thoughts I would rather be muted
My fingers pluck silent strings in hopes of a sound to block
what I think is the sadness trying to skin me like the layers of
an onion. My teeth draw blood and ooze a liquid I’ve never tasted
nor do I want to taste.
It is a taste that is similar to failure.
My skin feels so loose that I think it would fit better as a suit
rather than something I had come into the world with; my skin should
be tailored better which must mean that there is no God, but then
there is no ‘higher power’ for me to blame when I stitch the
seams wrong in a lousy attempt to fit in with a society I don’t
understand because all we do is kill what we say we love and perhaps
that is why I am afraid of the simplest syllables in “I love you”.
I am too dead to be held onto.










