In my broken boots
Walking through the dead red trees
With plastic bottles of eight dollar ***
That polaroid is all I have left

Walking through the dead red trees
I think of the ***** girl, the burnt house
That polaroid is all I have left
We only kissed because you looked like him

I think of the ***** girl, the burnt house
That place is not what it used to be
We only kissed because you looked like him
Well you left me just the same

That place is not what it used to be
With plastic bottles of eight dollar ***
Well you left me just the same
In my broken boots

*-MJS

My voice had been gone since September
(I remember the last days of when it was still intact;
I could use it, but it was damaged
It was the sound of peeling an onion,
Cut up, choppy, and coarse)
I eventually got sick of the struggle
So I let it go

But the other day, I called for you
And speaking is coming naturally again

It’s true; I do still love the sound of my voice
But it also brings with it a weight—
The chains on my ankles
(The chains from you, the ones
That starve me from my silent freedom)
They fade in as the hushed fades out

And I remember why I let my voice get lost

*-MJS