all my hits come from my misses
and it feels to no longer be write/right on target,
how life isn't sleeping all day and fighting all night
(myself vs. my imagination.)
and i'm more than the rambling,
erased phone messages to my exes,
and the burden to myself,
i was still the best secret you (n)ever had.
"play nice,"
but the only thing taking turns was my stomach.
no guts, all glory.
i'm this close to having what i couldn't kill for
(but i'll keep trying.)
the bodies are under the stairs
and the bruises from the fight are on my back.
there's blood on the shovel and the evidence is ashes.
putting up fi(r)st fights?
guilty as charged.
these excuses are starting to hold less water than your lungs.
i'm going to close my eyes and cross my fingers
and keep pretending that this good sick feeling in my stomach can be diagnosed as 'coincidence.'