On The Edge Of A Knife.

There are piles of unwashed mistakes in everyones room,
bruises from the night before on all of our legs.
I know I have lost my balance before,
falling into someone else.

It's simple when you only see a number on my face,
ignoring the letters I hold in my mouth.
It would be easy to look at my dirty feet
and think you know where I have been.

Regrets have scrambled their way into my oesophagus,

unannounced, choking me.

Swirls of paper dance in my front yard,

messages and poems, questions without answers.

Candied confessions have littered my floor for years,
desperation fighting adoration in the form of flesh.
I only speak one language at a time,
but nothing is foreign to me anymore.

There are chips in the paint on everyones white walls,
scratches on the lenses of all our rose coloured glasses.
What was muttered still rings in my ears,
I'm the only one who knows I'm still innocent.