I've come to the intersection of
false law and steal bolt spines
My blood keeps pumping kerosene
and my lungs can hardly stutter
but they still beg me to breathe
No one ever tells you when it's
a good time to break and the last
time I tried to swallow it was a
handful of rispodol and my brother's
fingers down my throat
I woke up in January with a father
and the seams to my soul
But now I have neither and they
ask me to be still
I could count the apologies I
ever got from both on one hand
and none were from this man
They tell me to write because it
gives voice to my speech but I
found the library of my mind in
ashes when I asked for a plea
And I don't know if maybe she just
gave up on me or us both
But I've left laders outside my
window for all the hands that couldn't
hold me and all the lips that never
mind to tell me why
Does one bleed at the knees for a
shoulder to sleep or do I blister my feet?