I feel air swell my lungs
And I think
What a waste it is
Then I think,
No
No waste at all
And the war begins

Oh darling.
When was it decided
That I get no decisions
For myself.

For myself.
For myself.

Your piano fingers creep slowly still
Drag across my wood skin,
Pulling up ridges and ripples
As you play.

For you
I let your ghost drip tears on me still
Staining my leather heart.

Lives are built around fairytales.
We all say stories are for children
But then search for dragons
To slay for our lovers.

We all must be
The daring prince
The beautiful maiden
The wicked villain
But I,

I...

I am the thorns that clench
Rough, brittle fingers
Around the tallest tower.
Climbing up, slowly, surely.
And then, the prince comes.
The prince comes
And he scales the great tower.
And he slays the great dragon.
And his maiden
His beautiful, pure maiden,
Has lips that quench like water.

But I am the thorns.
I am the footholds
That the prince climb with.
I am the ladder.
The means.
And, after the tower falls,
It is still my rough, brittle fingers,
Reaching skyward.

I tried to let the rain wash away my sins
and all they did was smear.
Big ones, and not-so-big-ones
swirled languidly.
Not angry.
Not raw.
Just,
leisurely.

I expected gaping maws
to open across my skin,
but none came.
I fell to my knees before
the great make-believe keeper of heaver
but my lips held my tongue prisoner
while my pride sawed at my throat.

There are no sins if there are none to speak of.