i.

I don't trust GOD

so I stopped praying a long time ago,

for I was born out of my creators

and GOD didn't seem to like it

He accused me of a bad deed

and from a tender age stripped me of my body

​I don't trust GOD,

for He created the terminal,

but it never really ends, does it?

I no longer think it'll remit,

so they left

and I turned ghastly,

got peeled of my lineage

while I rummaged through the ceiling,

trying to distract Him

​I don't trust GOD,

for I became a creator

and all my kids will be smothered with suffocation

The blue in my veins will make a carnage

out of my kindred,

and I didn't make it on time

the terminal ended

but not for me,

never for me

a terminal is nothing but a perpetual state of mourning

doesn't matter if I prayed,

if I begged,

or if I crawled,

the terminal ended

with my kindred

but not with me,

never with me,

for I am paying a deed

of a GOD that doesn't exist

​I don't trust GOD,

for I came from a rib

and His image

became bleary

​The universe can be completely, randomly indifferent,

but I am not

nor is GOD

neither is the terminal

I don't trust GOD

I'm always a prayer away

from crawling back to your bed

but that would only make me bleed

and i know that's bad for my spleen

so i stayed by my seat instead

with my pleas between my teeth

i have my rosary around my neck

like a rope

and my guts around my palms

holy beads

because i know about the visions

you keep tucked in your sheets

a hustler god

and all the in between

sleepless madonna

fashioned to your taste

youngsters with open eyes

and crimson letters

i wrote you once

kneeled by my bed

guts on my palms

like a fucking rosary

doesn't matter who ends up on my bed

for I'll eat out of them

and I'll never get an absolution

i met a god on a closed night

and his hands are still at my throat

kneeled by my bed

violent control of my gut

like a fucking rosary

​I'm a once in a blue moon type of scene. A dry season who can't take a fucking joke or unravel her reflection on a stranger's sink. A second voice, all my stories have already been told by someone wiser, prettier, and old.

​I'm the main attraction on a drizzly type of spectacle. A ghost on a girl's skin. I'm a crack on a moon's echo. Seven days of resurrection only to realize I'm back at the deep end. I'm a sleepy type of girl. Always awake, waking up late, a high number on a scale.

​It's frustrating, I open up myself to the viewer's appetite but the taste won't make you nail my flavor. I'm covered in your favor like a snare. A palate cleanser.

I mean it, look at me, center of stage!

I'm the main attraction but who would want me anyways? Everyone I love says I belong on dim lights. I'm a viewer's harmony on a good day. ​An old tale, a timeless deceit. Vienna by Billy Joel but in the wrong key. All the right ingredients but fundamentally wrong. You're not getting a vision's taste by ear alone. ​All the moaning and bitchin' got me here.

The center of the scene.

I'm not the final girl. You're out to get me.

​"Aren't you like a part of the ensemble?"

​Well, actually, the stage is empty, the exit is on the right.

full speed

a brutal blast

for it scratched a tender patch of depletion

i hit the wall

full speed

sooner or later you'll find out

I bend like a crook

and my bones are made of dust

i hit the wall

for i cannot make anyone like me

barely myself on a good day

for i cannot wake up

without a dreading heart

I am sick to my bones! my lungs! my vocal chords! all of me! a mess to follow!

look at me, for i am made of dust

i hit the wall

and what you don't face

will catch you by your ankles

and make you beg and crawl

to a higher man

full speed

open wound

the doctors gave you until the end of the week

but you can't keep playing jesus

and to be fair

you'll probably bury me

before i can get well

oh love,

i hit the wall

full speed

for my blues

are made of dust

and they smothered my nature

a brutal blast

they'll cry

when they bury me

before I'll bury you

lately

I am the hour at which i wake up

late at night

or the crack of dawn

lately

I am a knot of a knot

of a knot of a knot

of a fucking knot

lately

I am not sure i can face my picture;

an echo of a crack in the moon

inside a foul basin

i love me

i love me not

lately

I am not even sure i have what's left of me

to unravel all my knots

and finally find a crack of light