(over the course of several years and a couple continents)
How many years did you spend in that room?
Spinning records, writing letters.
You know I fear the day I lose my voice, but
You don’t have that choice.
I’m looking at the cut and paste
Patchwork body art
That are your scarred arms.
Your skin is clay, and soft to carve.
And soft to carve.
You’re living years in the tornado room
The doctor’s coming soon
With charts and codes and books and bones
He’ll write you right out of ruin.
Guard your insanity at fifteen
In your room; the door off its hinges.
In yellows and greens I scribble and smear
And dream of illnesses.
‘cause I can tell by the lines in your cheek
You’re tattered, you’re just like me.
I know it still, you’ve been locked up for weeks
You’re marked, in sane, you’re free.
Guard your insanity
All the world would steal your humanity
Given one shot
Make meals of your nails and know that normalcy’s a lie
The art of being what you’re not.