There goes my mind, snapping like an elastic lifeline
over a sea of daggers.

Waiting on words like waiting on fuses
to be no more, in hopes the explosion won't **** my so-called pride.

...Whatever is left of it.

This isn't the first time.
Knowing my luck, it won't be the last time my hope relied on the sympathies of a bomb.

And wouldn't you know that bombs are unsympathetic?

I'm wasting away here, as I have been for years.
Enduring bombardments with every day, more and more of myself blown away.

I just hope when my day comes, I'm not too damaged.

...If my day comes.

...Will it come?

My heart: already nearly gone.
My face: atrophied to deaden all emotion.

Am I worth anything anymore?

So much blasted away,
day after day,
I only recognize myself
by my scars,
the craters,
like torn earth.