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Description
~Recovery~

Helicopters fly over head like bothersome flies,
he's pulling knives out of his back like splinters,
and he really hates it when I don't say anything,
but all I can think about is preserving something fragile,
I am staring into space letting life happen without me.

The morning news is telling us that a storm is headed this way,
and blood tastes like pennies,
he's been walking around with holes in his back for a lot of years,
and he helps me through the fog on my worst days,
but I don't like what I see and I'm trying to wash it off...

It's not helping.

He fills me up where I am mended,
I'm finding it harder and harder to trust anyone
they've all given me very little reason to do so,
because they were looking for me out there,
and I can't escape the mundane.

Recovery © J-Goth/Amanda P.