Can you still hear it when the angels sing? Your car radio only seems to play static stations these days, as if it knows how empty it's gotten inside of your head. Damaged goods, that's what your mother always called it. Something that's just not good enough because the last person to touch you didn't read the signs that said, "fragile, handle with care". Did you forget to tell them your bones were made of glass? Did you let them know the person before had already shattered a few? I guess that's why you drink so much, just something to numb away the pain. It must be hard to feel anything at all when you're two bottles deep, passed out in someone else's bed because you cling to anything that remotely resembles a home. Something warm, at least that's what you'd like to think. If only the people who touched you didn't quit so quickly. Cold turkey, hands that turn your skin to frost. Nothing warm about it other than the heat in your cheeks at night before you start to cry. You're just feeling sorry for yourself because there's no "do not disturb" button for you to click. No way to tell someone you need to be left alone because your heart is too wounded to fight another war. If only you hadn't been so nuclear. Full of energy that bursted and took out the wrong people. Always pouring yourself into a new body and constantly coming up empty. You've given away so many of your pieces that there's no way to connect the dots and define yourself. Stuck in a body you no longer recognize. You'd like to call it identity theft but the person inside can't scream out quite loud enough. Somehow they've fallen so far down the rabbit hole that even the Hatter thinks it's far too gone to bring back. I know when you were little they said that if you ever got lost to just call for help, but there's nothing more you can do when nobody wants to pick up the phone.