maybe it was before the salt burned your skin when i was a waitress writin’ out recipes for Death prescriptions.
maybe it was when my hair was long and reached to my knees and in the summer i lived rooted in the good black earth, skin burnt by ultraviolet fingers.
maybe it was when the cancer creeping took hold of my insides, with each dose i took to fix a broken mind, the virus extended through my arteries and veins.
maybe it was wicked, all a fluke. maybe cards lie and candles don’t reignite.
maybe i’ve lost my touch with words and ramble on in the dark, just like the oozing musician...