dog leashed, tied onto a pitch-black pole
woven to the pillar, like you're woven to my soul

every thought about you pours acid in my heart
and i cough out the rest like blood
one day i'm scavenging for water, a paranoid dart
the next i'm drowning in a hot-pink flood

i saw you in the window of that small local store
after becoming a regular, the door wouldn't open anymore
but you looked so pretty when you were so far away
and for some reason i come back every day

but it was so good at first
you made me finally believe
that someone out there could love someone like me

and i told you what i did wrong
and you said you didn't care
but i must've mistaken that love was in the air

i try to talk to you
i try to understand
but every word i say to you
you repeat back, just bland

and you blame it on me?
you say i'm the confusing one
so i chase and chase, give and give
you never let me take some

it's my mistake i put love first
my mistake i wasn't rational
my mistake that when you said you liked me
i somehow didn't think it was casual

i'm a dog waiting at your door
saliva puddle on your wooden floor
i wait for you to come back
like i'm tied to a pole, pitch-black

my hunger has been satiated now
i open my eyes for the sixth time
this has gone much longer than i can allow
you're making me run out of rhyme
i guess it was my mistake that even then, even now
i somehow thought you would be mine.

i was born and on fire. my skin, open flesh words that bled onto anyone in a close vicinity. my face, a cloud of black dust. i knew that i had love in my heart to share with the world, but no one could see past the mold on my skin that would spread to them if they got too close. i was born into two things: a fruit that appeared ripe on the outside but leaked out a decayed, rotten mess, and the hands that opened said fruit with blood that held on. i watch the destruction i've made, that i didn't mean to make, but i believed that it was justified. i wait for someone to understand these words, not to pity me, but to find a part of themselves in me. i have found nobody. i fear that as of now, i am a walking, moldy model of decaying flesh and raw meat. i did not want to be this way. i did not want to be the black sheep. i did not want to be bad. i am a sculpture of wet clay that they could mold with their pure hands, and despite all that creativity in their alive and well minds, they have carved the word "rotten" in my flesh.

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