You got worn down by need.
It wasn’t I who changed.
How many times did I bleed?
For you to open the wound even more.
How many times did I lay face down?
For you to pick at the sore.

There’s nothing left but bits.
On top of my chest
an elephant sits.

And he’s crushed all my innards;
pulled all my triggers.

Now I recoil
at the slightest touch
from someone else.

The only crutch I have
is my mouth.