Rug On Fire

It's still lit, I don't need to worry.
The fires still burn from the summer.
From a place that still makes no sence.
I need to find a place with those fires.

My back is sliding down the roof.
Mabye it's all in my head.
yea...it's all in my heart.

Head in my hands,
feeling to find my hair is gone,
a realization long found,
and long forgotten.

There's no logic here.
There has never been.
This isn't the place to find understanding.
I have never been the place.

What If there's no child to find?
No home inside this forest?

I can't be blown away.
That's why i'm falling on the floor.
A floor thats always easily found.

Months spent by me
Writhing on these hard floors.

I wish to bruise my bones.
My bones that scream whispers.
My limbs the streth and retrack.
Pressing against the sturdy ground.

A ground that you can only view as carpet.

My breath pushes and catches.
It shakes as my rib cage presses inward.
Pushing any out burst of emotion deeper.
I give myself headaches locking away tears.

What comfort is found in my lack of hair?
I keep gripping at it.
twisting it around my fingers.

What comfort am i trying to conjour up from a decision
whose purpose and reasoning has since wondered off?

For years i have tried to bandage and clean
my self beaten body.

have told myself my hands are not my own.
by doing so i calmed my dying nerves.

I have become one with this fucking rug.