I fell through the bottom of me...

On nights like this

I’m sure God knows where to find me,

a puddle on the floor,

stagnant ideas that once had potential

are now bare bones.

Nothing left to even gnaw on

except the bone of a concept

that I used to know myself.

So I’ll lead you to my house with braille for fingers.

You’ll feel me up to find your way home,

no breadcrumbs, just a body as desperate to understand

who she is and no means to figure out how.

Her friends and family know her.

They shake their fists, “How dare he!” They cry.

But I was just a map, I was never the treasure.

And I’m beginning to see that this is one of the many mistakes of men.

The destination sums up their whole lives,

their whole idea of you,

until you’re falling from their mouth,

this top shelf version of a woman they made with their hands,

because you are but braille

and not in the way it should be used.

You’re strummed until you show them what they want,

never knowing that maybe this isn’t what you wanted in the first place.

So tell God, I don’t understand what I’m doing here.

Tell God, their plan isn’t working and I should be taken home.

Just take me home I beg.

Until then, I’ll be on the floor

next to the bones of what I could’ve been,

dug deep with all the skeletons I’ve long since buried.

I’ll say my prayers and hope God knows I’m down here.

Because God knows all.

They'll find me… right?