Trusty

Didn't realize all this blood had run out and dried

Until it began to make me itch.

My soul is drunk and wreckless; my skin is along for the ride.

Soon it will be swerving, winding up in a ditch.

What a nasty mess I have become,

writing love notes to no one.

What a trusty son of a gun a slight cut can be.

Couldn't notice how I try to run and hide

Until I could not find myself.

My mind's a jar of rusty nails falling off the shelf.

11/23/2006