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I’ve gotten good at hiding, when I feel like hiding.
My mouth is great at running, when I feel like running.
Now I’m biting the hairs on my arm like I do
when I don’t know where I am or what I should do.
I’ve been blessed with these eyes that come
with innocent questions like where I’m from.
Holding expectations to give obvious answers and tell no lies.
But I swear there’s nothing innocent in these eyes,
because I’ve seen dead friends, and I’ve seen murder,
and I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t done.
But that’s not to say that I’m not afraid
of long nights dwelling on past mistakes,
because with life moving as fast as it does,
I’ll still have stories to fucking tell.

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