I am the dirt collected beneath the rat's claws.
Worse yet, I am the bubonic plague that he carries.
I am the stench of bodies burning,
And the force that compelled the Manson girls.

A hangnail that ends beyond your cuticle,
I wish I could say it hasn't happened before.
It feels like I'm rotting on the backburner,
On everyone's backburner.
It feels like payback for the years of dust I've let them collect.
I've lost my touch; I can't sell it like I'm busy.
I just don't care to sell it at all.

The most innocent
Cloud of sugar dressed in pink
Rots your teeth away

On a cold and foreign bed,
Yours is all that's in my head.
I miss the swarm of pins,
That tackle my shins and forearms,
And pulse into my every extremity,
Like a remedy
For the kind of sick that plagues the mind
Of twisted children, left behind
By those with purpose and direction.
Freedom is the new infection.

" I don't ever want you to feel trapped"
The first time I watched you cry.
Vulnerability is so very beautiful on you.
It wouldn't be fair if you were invincible.
And anyway, it's nice to be let inside.
To be given chance to pass judgement
On those shattered pieces of your psyche
With which you've cut yourself.
I'd like someday to collect them all
And dull the edges,
So that you may handle them,
And never have to worry about drawing blood.