red spit-stained roses and pretty, small thorns
shoes soft still running from sharpened devil's horns
rain trickling down past my well-meant intentions
soak into minds like your sad, pointed questions
leave no more space in my lie-addled brain
save me from feeling my ever-growing pain
better to sit up and don't act like I need
I'll never be free to make my own finger bleed.
-I've never been my own person. Why should I be allowed now?