Broken promises, sugar-coated lies

Burning relentlessly in your mind

Sick and twisted, in denial

Things haven't been the same in quite a while

And you think you're my everything

But you're the broken glass beneath my feet

I'm bleeding out and you're hogging all the

Bandaids for your paper cut

You think that you're the air in my lungs

And maybe there's some truth to that

I can barely move on

And you know that!

Still, you're the ball to the chain

That is bringing me down

I'm drowning in my own apologies

But they'll never satisfy you

No!

And maybe I messed up, hey!

You can't hold that over my head

You can't get inside of my head

You can't get inside of my head

And you think you're my everything

But you're the broken glass beneath my feet

I'm bleeding out and you're hogging all the

Bandaids for your paper cut

I gave up, I gave in, I gave you everything

I miss you, I miss us, though it's foolish to

Say that aloud

But I've moved on, I've moved on

And you're the fool lingering behind

Woah!

You may be smart, my old friend

But so are rats! So are rats!

And a pinch of arsenic can kill them

So who's to say that just a taste, just a taste

Of the pain won't tear you down

I'm taking it back! I'm taking it back!

All of my affection and my trust!

You are unforgiven, and I am unapologetic

And it's all very unhealthy, but I don't care

I really don't care this time

I won, and you lost

And you think you're my everything

But you're the broken glass beneath my feet

I'm bleeding out and you're hogging all the

Bandaids for your paper cut

You're just a paper cut

Small and annoying

And when I try to rid myself

Of the infection that is you

I will hurt! But only for a moment

You are not big! You will not hurt me!

I realized this far too late

I was trying to win you back

I was trying to make things right

I was trying to make things right

I was only trying to make things right!

Well, over time we healed

Isn't that nice?

Things will never be the same, of course

But I know better now, I know better now

You may someday fall back into the pit

But I know better now!

Or at least, I like to think

And you think you're my everything

But you're just a little paper cut

And I don't even need a bandaid

Fingertips still sore from cutting my nails, I hold the mirror up to study my face.

I can't go longer than a day without picking my skin. Pulling my hair. Scratching my scalp until there's blood on my hands.

It's not my fault. It's not the medication. I've done this for years before I even found out what it was. Naturally, nobody thought of it as a problem, as a compulsion, as a disorder.

It was just a bad habit. And I was being stubborn about breaking it. I could stop at any time, my parents tried to convince me.

The doctor saw me pulling my hair when my mom brought me in for depression. I already knew that I had trich, and he could only mumble that word as if he didn't consider my problem to be serious enough.

The next visit to the doctor, he acknowledged the sores across my face, my legs, my arms, and my scalp. He told me just to try to stop picking.

I can't, though. If I could, believe me, I would have done it long ago. I would have stopped before I even realized that I had this problem.

Fingertips still sore from cutting my nails, so short that I drew blood several times, I put down the mirror.

I can't look at myself anymore.

nothing beautiful could possibly come from the dusty bell of that old saxophone

tarnished

touched by too many pairs of amateur hands

who had no right to touch it

dented by a careless man

who had no reed to use anyway

who dropped it

damaged the keys

i brought it to a man

who said that he could fix any instrument

he had fixed a few before

and he thought that he could fix

he thought he could hide

he thought he could erase

all of the damage and the dents

i trusted him with my prized instrument

only to be let down

for while the keys were fixed

and the brass had been polished in a failed effort to hide

every dent

every scratch

he could not erase everything that had happened over the decades

every time i pick up the instrument

i feel the years

i feel the damage

i feel the icy and dry palms of all who have touched my beloved saxophone

the dirty and unworthy palms of all who have touched it despite their lack of interest in what it was meant to do

now the old saxophone lies in my hands

my warm and caring

only slightly calloused hands

and i take good care of it so that beautiful things might someday flow from her gleaming bell

if only somebody would have done for me

what i did for that saxophone