I stole a box of band-aids from the Rite-Aid,
The beat-down one ten minutes away.
In a gas station bathroom by the wash basin,
I cut my arms up, whispering, "Stay."

I was shivering badly, my lips chapped and ashy,
The whole box of bandages didn't quite do the job.
With my sleeves unrolled and a confident stroll
I walked out pretending I wasn't terribly lost.

Home is the kind of torture my mind chooses to blur,
Domestic fairy-tales that never come true.
Staring at the ceiling entranced for days with a popcorn maze,
Thinking of questions no one's ever had an answer to.

I stole a box of band-aids from Rite-Aid
The day I opened an artery with a knife.
The cashier would have listened; would've called an ambulance
If I'd had any inclination to restore my faith in life.