The bags around my eyes are dry

From years of failing to cry.

Red and worn,

Like blood on the proverbial sword

That slices through my thighs

And keeps me from going outside.

Yes, I know where it is,

That’s where they told me to spit!

I’d like to stay clean

A living pastiche,

But still somehow be seen

Complaining about how no one loves me.

Complaining about how no one loves me.

I’d like to stay clean

A living pastiche,

And still somehow be seen