When I was seventeen
I cut myself periodically.
I keep scrubbing these hands
And I'm beginning to see that
they'll never be clean
And all the words you spit out
remain unseen.
They float upwards
as soon as they leave your tongue,
bound for Mars,
past the trees,
beyond the stars
And no one knows
what the stains are
on my living room floor.
Except me and my wrists
but they're not my friends anymore.
They're always weeping,
never at peace
but God doesn't it feel good
to be alive?
I'm knee deep in spiritual waste
but hey that's okay.
I've never felt more awake.
I woke up
from my coma
today.
-Written December 25th 2006
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