Who’s gonna pull the chute if you don’t, if I’ve amputated every last second hand with a joke, with the time I’ve wasted chasing after chemicals in my brain with my fleeting focus? Can you make it so I no longer need to change to become something better?
Searching through your signature scribbled down in those tiny black boxes. If I find it parallel with the ground would you resurrect it? Please don’t ask me what I’ve done with your name or that piece of silver ‘cuz you know I hid them in the dirt and I’m afraid to become something better.
Now that it’s a waiting game, I can feel where the friction’s carved a notch into my shoulder blade. Will it heal when the weight’s been lifted? What if I have bent your will so far that you can’t reshape it? What if it begins to break apart? Would you find someone better?
Now I believe that you have been knitting me outside the womb. And through everything the patterns in fabric will show how you’ve moved inside of me every stitch that you threw is still working to hold each artery back from making a mess in my counterfeit soul.
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