I set off a grenade in my hand
Because I didn’t want to maim anyone else.
A knee jerk reaction not thought through or planned,
The perfect fuck up. Really. I should be proud of myself.
As I continually pick out the shrapnel shards
That surface in splinters time and time again,
Inflicting more wounds with words harsh and hard,
Try to stitch wounds together with ink and pen,
I try to silence that nagging doubt
That tells me, I’ve let you use me too,
And that to lance you from my skin
Is not only cleansing, but the only thing to do.
But that feels like I am victim
To my own fucked up charade guessing game –
You didn’t know you were playing,
So only I can take the blame.