As I stand here in the rain
I think
There's a possibility that I'm dead.

Then I might be an angel
Or a devil
Or perhaps I would stand and be rejected for being that I am me.

It may be you don't understand
I am sand
Or twenty-seven living alone.

You don't really think about it
The water crashing over me
Listening for a sound outside my bedroom window.

I ask if I may pray for her tonight
God is love
A contradictory statement when said just like that.

I am sitting on a hard bench reading this book
I do not know the words
To be completely honest on this one day a year.

Forgotten I am forgotten
On the doorstep
Of he who will never take me in.

A smile from the cannibal in the pretty dress
Across the street
Under the snowy mistletoe.

Unluckily thirteen
With twelve pages
In the book on which I shall make my grave.

Never dead in the dirt
I will not
Play the Judas to your Jesus Christ.

And it's all a giant metaphor
Aside from the blood on my wrists
Sort of funny when you think about it.

This joke that's been told
A million times before
And everyone laughs only as an automatic reaction.

And what if I am that joke
I could think so
If someone were to tell me I look pretty once more.

I can not fight this overwhelming wave
Of prayers and books
I feel as if I am being trapped in its currents and can't get out.

I will not apologize for this
Which I did not do
Without you all as my enablers.

I may mock you when I am alone
Or with a friend
Who has the same ideas that I do not make up myself.

I may try to blend in with those on whom
I must make a good impression
But I will not allow myself to fully believe in them.

Apathy I feel and sustain and feed
I care too much
I can not when you as a whole are all around me.

I am smothered and used
And I may feel abused
When you ask me to come and read a few words.
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