Hurt

I shouldn't have turned the valve, I knew it, six hours later I'm still telling myself I know better and a childhood of admonishment claws at the back of my head this bourbon isn't helping where are my pills. It's stupid, so stupid, in the end it's only material damage it can all be replaced with money and I'm sure you can find some of that if you stop spending it on buying yourself freedom. The monologue raves. In the shower I draw tattoos over my body, but on dry land my tears wash them away in an instant. My hopes and dreams go with them, how frail this solid ground on which I stand, and instead I spend the evening cleaning up the sludge that rested in one hundred years of New York City tenement code. You don't know why everything you touch turns to shit.

There's a message for you in here somewhere, and you're determined to read it right this time. Put on your glasses. You're out of excuses, now.