Waste

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I'd rather not know
Why we bleed ourselves
Fists over needles
For a cheap motel
Boasting guns and bibles
Our unbandaged stigmata

No action
Still, she calls from the floor
All wishes
No backbone
Crawling over the floor
All lost
No fate
Leaking blood on the floor

My god is my bottle-
I do what I must
My demons are shards
Of a god I couldn't trust
Feeding like sermons
In the gut of a sinner
Shredding flesh until
Bile turns to wine

Thieving hands
Rake glass on the floor
Gravity is heaven
And a warden
Pulling me back into it
All threats
No evidence
This cold motel-room floor

"Fix this
I'm broken and
I'd rather not believe you
Or know
Why," I go on...

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