I'm excavating your ribcage
Looking for answers
Of when things went wrong

I'm no mathematician or buddhist priest
But I'm really good at French toast
And overcomplicating myself

I convinced my coworkers I'm a vampire
Even though I'm vegetarian
The only kind of bloodlust I have
Is for loggers
(They took away my Mother nature)

I'm also really good at being over-dramatic
In a non serious way
You're wearing broken ankles on your wrists
How did those get there?

                                                         ­            Did you walk all over me
                                                              ­       With your hands
                                                           ­          Around my neck

Your hands were the noose that will pull the trigger and make me swallow all those sleeping pills so that people realize my pillows aren't made from the ocean

                                                          ­            You are that critical blow, K.O.,
                                                           ­            last breath,
                                                                ­      That push over the edge                                              

I'm really good at letting my
Scars be neon flashing lights
and/or ants that are
crawling,biting, poisoning
my memories

Letting my past,
                    Make me a Ghost of Today

I'm excavating your ribcage
And everything checks out
But I think you left your
heart at the train station

Broken hearts are stronger than those intact, for the broken cannot be broken further is a fact.

I don't know
If I'm the problem
Of all my problems
I want to go away
From myself
And sometimes hug myself tightly
And tell myself
'You can do it,
You can take all the agony
Because you're stronger than ever!'