There are some
Who age too fast
To keep up
With the trend

There are some
Who say age
is nothing
But numbers

There are some
Who need numbers
To help them
Feel their worth

There are some
Whose numbers
Don't add up
Till the end

There are some
Then there are others...

There are some
Who like to wander
With thoughts
Loose in their minds

There are some
Who spend their lives
Thinking 'bout feelings
Of all kinds

There are some
Who believe that
It's too late to
Trust your heart

There are some
Who'll stand in your way
When they know
You'll make it safe

There are some
Then there are others...

There will always be
The one

There are some
Then there are others...
And there will always be
The one.

Everyone has an addiction.
Some, simpler than others.
Some, the worst things on earth.
But most of them,
Albeit all of them,
Are trying to numb something that tears them to shreds.

the sky slides like a napkin falling from the dinner table
slanting like a wayward line that you drew with a shaky hand
the pills kiss you deeply and suddenly the double doors the color of luminescent moss turn into the double dutch jump ropes that whip your heels if you aren't careful but you're always too careful and you jump with the intention of never feeling the sole of your foot smacking the pavement but then the sound hits and your eyes open
your friend next door has greasy bangs and a mole that covers the top of her cheek and you're always catching yourself staring at it too long and you have to stare at the stains on the hallway carpet instead
but if you let yourself they all become old blood stains
there's a little baby in her home
a baby that has lungs like tattered tissue paper
a heart like a deflated balloon that hiccups too much
but the mother cradles it like perfection, like it can all be helped with enough arms and bottles of medicine each individually labeled with his name
her eyes are tired around the corners but you don't understand why and your brow sweats every time you think to look at him and you feel clammy around the edges
there's a night when you're woken up to screaming and ambulance siren lights
the dizzying red and white make their way into your veins and stay tucked in for years in a different city you can still taste the smell of antiseptic
when you come out to greet her days later there's no baby anymore and there's a suffocating silence
weeks later there's a small tattoo on your friends mothers' chest with his name on it
sloppily inked and looking permanently temperamental and you understand it as a kind of reminder or shrine or apology
you wonder if there's a funeral
you ask your father if babies go to hell
the television is talking about the beneficial antioxidants of wine
as he drink his coffee looking at the morning newspaper and never replies
the sirens can be heard in the distance and the morning feels like closure