I worship at the altar of lost things,

On skinned knees to gods that do not want to be found.

I sit here and I nurse this jagged heart,

I touch the ragged wounds my edges left behind.

How they only grow, how I am nothing else.

I try to cut out my own rot.

I turn something into nothing –

Or is it the other way around?

I watch the empty bloom,

I have naught to show for it still.

I carry my scars inside my chest,

I wear them on my sleeve, parade them through town.

I hold them against me like a lover in the dark,

And this is how hurt can be gentle.

Lover, oh – how the beautiful things love to tear you open,

How they leave you spilling out until you are gone.

And now I am nothing but bone and longing.