My life on that day wasn’t black and blue, or the pink on my face;
It was a canvas of white so I could paint the black away.
My life on that day was a million bridges and a million futures I could’ve picked
And I chose words to stumble, and words to fall
Out my mouth, to be stained onto those white clean walls
For those bridges I left at that river I drained, For they were all too clean and safe
So I packed up my bag, which carried my pen
And wrote down the words I knew I never said,
From those words, I built bricks and silver and screws and cement
But the words that I wrote, that I tried to use to play pretend
They were just imaginary
Some people had imaginary friends or monsters to haunt them at night
I had words that crawled and flew and bled out of my eyes
With sickly red, or clear of day
The glass I looked out of was rained on with black or red or white paint
My life on that day was when the words left me alone
The words I thought I was and who I knew I’d become
The house that I’d built as a safe place crumbled around me
My life on that day, I had realized, that it didn’t fall down all at once,
Not quick and erratic
Not all and one
It was the base that had eroded away