dirty
that's how I feel.
not the skin clinging to my sun singed bones
but rather the mud caked molecules
that compose my entity.
the blood rusted years I'm forced to relive.
every other atom
washed in guilt
bleached in self doubt
left questioning every thought awakening
but every other one
confused as to why
as to what
what have I done?
is it wrong?
have I sinned?
perhaps disappointed a god
that I don't know exists?
and every other one
tells me follow my instincts
the moon is not meant to be reached
not by those with bones
scorched by the breeze at least
but how can I clean the blood from my hands,
if the blood is still so deep under the skin?
kept up by visions of a hundred endings
a hundred beginnings
a hundred moments that I can't forget and
my own war yet to be won
but rather willed to keep raging on
kept up by what-ifs and I-did-its
knowing, logically, each star is where it's meant to be
yet despite clean cuts
clearing endings too abrupt
I still find myself
kept up
by my own morality
in a soul dying
to feel anything
anything
but this reality
