We had scar-tissue
romance and ours was
a relationship of saying
goodbye—every time
we fought, every time
we fucked, and every time
we called it quits, before
picking up our knives
again

But now that I’m scrubbing
toilets on my hands & knees,
with four degrees,
I realize that one escape route
leads to another

I talk about writing and write so much because aside from music, it’s the only thing giving me peace and reason and purpose. Everyone is looking for answers but I don’t have them and I’m not the answer, but I feel like if I could see the face of God, I’d be better, healed—absolved. I feel like a bastard and like I’m pushing a Ponzi scheme every time someone comes to me for guidance and I push them to the “right” path when I’m just as lost as they are. And it makes me feel like shit every time someone wants to look up to me, or when people call me strong or brave or amazing or want to tell me how “great” I am. And then, the next moment, I’m fine, until the next tide of emotion comes again.

I’m just a person who’s had a lot of time to think—a flawed and fucked-up person.

I’ve looked at so
much porn that
every woman I meet
looks vaguely
familiar

I’m breaking
down
and I’ve
got so
little time
to
do it

Some men call her cyanide
For she'll cause and take your pain.
To others she's the devil
Or the quest for true love's bane,
And, to those less lucky,
She's called their ball and chain.