18 years, its been
since i first felt the scalpel make its way into
my eager skin,
yet, it should be called a KNIFE
because that sounds harsher,
less kind.
and this is not a kind story.
18 years its been since they
re-orchestrated my existence
for a third ******* time,
and hey nobody asked me.
nobody did.
if that was an emergency,
whose to say this one isn't?
but hey, doesn't a cheap motel sound
nice when you get to have the continental breakfast
with a freshly sewn up chest?
doesn't oatmeal sound nicer with oxy?

i've gotta say man, this is it.
this is the time where you get to feel better than you
ever have and better than you ever will.

don't get used to it.

don't get used to that freedom feeling
that fly-away hyped up bs
they're always gonna look at you and scour
always gonna have that glint in their eye and its
not the one that says
i love you
i need you
i want you
how you are...

its the one with that bitter disapproval
the one with the utter disappointment
the ever-untrustworthy smile.

this isn't you
this isn't you
this isn't you


so come on
grab your KNIFE
grab your sutures
grab your morphine

get on with it,
and don't forget who told you
about God on your way out