Peeling the skin on my lip, I hang on to the life I barely live.

Cracked and ripped dry from the marrow of life, how can I talk now but only to shrive?

Defined by the hand that destroys me so, I'm expected to live off of that vandal, blemishing what I've sown.

By the skin of my lip, I now bleed, and by the skin of my lip, I refuse to concede.

Early on in my life, my teeth came in,

Only anew, they gleamed as they were pried out brand-new.

Abandoned without my bite, my reason, and my pith, they took everything, even my skin.

In my moments of lowth, I was reaped from completely, in times of drought, yield, and now my new growth.

I never did notice those new teeth that came in, they were never bright as before,

But I still clung onto them in spite… or the hope that there would be some more.