I should cut off all my scapegoats.
They only lead me further down the wrong road.
I don’t know why
I tell myself I try
when I really don’t.
All of a sudden
after tripping round the bend,
I am a child again.
I need my mothers hands around my back
and an ice pack
on my heart.
I promise change and healing
but so abruptly fold back inside myself in attempt to control the bleeding.
Even though I know it never works this way.
Isn’t all this suffering
supposed to make us strong.
Supposed to age into art?
It should bind us together
but it strains us apart.