the sides are rough and caving in at parts,
i'll carve stories into the gravestone to give me better memories.
bitterness swirls in my sweat, please don't let me go,
i'm confused by such intense swinging:
from feet-punching-the-clouds high right down to
clutching hands and desperate tears and an urge to slice so overwhelming,
i shake with my inability.
pass me my flimsy little blades from your locked drawer,
i don't want to start reaching for the kitchen knives.