It hit like seven years bad luck and bloody knuckles.
No one ever tells you about the glass shards
how they imbed themselves in and under the skin,
writing their way up your arms right to the elbow,
though it really depends
on how hard you punch the veil of reflection.
I fell face first into a wall of glass.
It left scars beneath my skin, jagged slices of nothing
to rub my blood stained fingers over in that pain-filled comfort
where addiction sometimes seems like a good idea.
And there always comes a point where you think you can walk alone,
the darkness ainít so dark, the demons ainít so scary, right?
Itís time to get off the merry-go-round someone spliced to a rollercoaster,
only you forgot to notice Ďcause you were too busy
going Ďround in circles.
Itís like breathing in shattered glass thatís slicing through your lungs so hard
you canít breathe, canít think, canít be!
Pain has never felt so tangible as right now, and youíd do anything to make it stop,
anything to go back and find demented heaven again.
And it keeps hitting like seven years bad luck with perpetually bloody knuckles.
While you deliberately forget about the glass shards
imbedding themselves in and under your skin
until youíre at risk of bleeding to death, more glass than human.
© Indie Adams 2012