There are thorns you can never quiet pull out of your skin
Safety blankets are made from band aids stuck on my wrist,
A billion paper cuts because I can't find a way to say anything meaningful on paper,
Bathing my wounds in salt because it smells a lot like a home cooked meal,
Sometimes the best medicine is laying in my bed getting sicker,
Sometimes I lie to myself because I know the best medicine is getting out of bed,
Sometimes I try to remember my mom saying how the best medicine taste the worst,
But how can I tell when I lost my tastebuds somewhere between empty hearts and empty bottles.
Somewhere I got lost between home and here.
Somewhere I got lost between two places I never really knew.
There's pictures of a family on the walls but I'm left alone and can't find it in myself to pound on anymore locked doors,
They've been closed for so long vines grow like a memory that says do not enter,
Vines that have thorns you can never quiet pull out of your skin.
