If it’s true that I’m stuck with my hands
Even after I’ve dumped my sadness down the drain
Then I’ll hold on to it.

If it’s true that when I kissed you I cut your lip
And tried to **** you dry
Then I wish you hadn’t stopped me.

Memories stain and it might be true that I’ve been six months clean. Give and take a few.

The mind is its own place and you left ****** finger-paintings on the walls.

There’s an old folks tale told by blind witches
And if it’s true, the myth, it goes like this:
“There once was a boy who fell in love with a plastic doll. She would stare at him and he never felt seen. So he injected that neon fluid inside his veins so she would notice him. he glowed brilliantly like a motel sign, like a phosphorous mannequin.
All for nothing”

I had replaced the blood I ****** out
With mine
Well whoever put that blood in me, in there,
That blood I put in you

If I did dump my sadness it would go to the river
In the big fish tales, in the sirens, in the spoiling
River bed

And after rolling off of you, stiffened by some ***** of pleasure
                 It’s the only time you feel real
I would go to the sink, dip my head under
The rushing water
Fill myself up on it
Feel it fill my stomach and my eyes

What have I fallen for?
What have I taken in?
People have survived on sadness and emptiness
                                   on stories and truth
                                            forever

    Who am I to refuse that?