I mean...
You could’ve left me at the altar.
It could be worse than this.

Despite my heart dripping through
My broken rib cage...
It could be worse than this.

One day of feeling like I’m being
Crushed and flattened into mud.
But it’s okay,
Because I refuse to be worse than this.

Abraxas in the bathroom mirror,
I am not here perpetually.

Krakens in the coffee creamer,
"here" is a relative term.

Massive is the pile of things
I'll never get around to touching,
my relative's calls are all forwarded
to voicemail.

Worry is a meal all it's own.

I can feel my leg still,
cut off still,
bleeding still.

My leg looks like a cabin,
a dark shingle, logs rotting
from being loved.

Phantom cabin pounding
my frontal lobe, I hear the hammer
pounding still to build.