So, it hurts to know, I said my prayers, now count and trace bones ‘til I sleep.
Searching for outlines, sometimes I hope I don’t die, before finding that elusive piece.
Every night I hear that heart-beating outside these echo walls,
Each time the mirror reveals more structure,
Courtesy of bathroom stalls.
No, it’s not the drug that whispered to me,
But the feeling created by lure.
To all those patterns that boasted on my wall,
Newly defined from a former blur.
From the stories of stars, as they interchange and connect,
To the images behind lids as you make yourself get sick.
Acidic release hurts each time you breathe,
Said “Momma, I’m just a dancer”,
Finding the truth in matches and ashes,
As you follow trends of high fashion cancer.
The smoke dissipates, with it sense of time,
Can’t catch or control it, counting clocks in your mind.
The numbers watered down, now time means more than recording,
With each alarm clock scream, you get lost in reality distorting.
In that time that was lost, you were prey for a prayer,
Couldn’t stand witness to god, no, you’d much prefer swear:
“This fucking churning, what’d I do to get this”?
The dizziness now burning, heart flutters in your chest.
The scaled belief, even parts never learn,
But logic trapped in the counterweight learnt crash and burn.
The science is unavoidable: get high, come back down,
Opposite actions are equal ‘til we’re laid in the ground.
What happens while we’re down there, is fuel for debate,
Like the lies muttered to momma when she asked if you ate.
The bruises on your knees, marks on your neck,
Give you away as a new- found wreck.
With a few dollar bills, you made cash out of treasure,
Performing for shadows that pay you for pleasures.
Got a handful of pills, and this sweet time to kill,
Figured this would make me relax.
Just ghosts of society that bloomed in the past,
But society took you down here: Fuck to pay the tax.
They said “Now flames turn to ashes, and then in to dust”
Were they talking about death or this love- blinded lust?
With doctors and prescriptions, note pad perceptions,
They swore they could slow down my brain.
They said “ Take them every day, make the ghosts go away”.
Acting like the answer was plain.
A capsule and a half, part of the daily trap,
To help me forget his face.
The panic sets in, the flashback begins,
Never guessed the heart knew this pace.
The scars are there, he put me here,
Saw I fit the part for his stage,
Wish he could read it now, take it back somehow,
As pain fills out page after page.
These secrets formed foundations, where we’ve built our crooked homes,
At the same time gave me stories to get out through my poems.