All relaxed with nails bit to the quick while
golden was the silence,

like a foam filling the mouth of the exempt.

The burdened saw the damage, absorbed with our
legs lost to heated white lies.

We remain to pull its frame from the ashen wreck
of anxiety,

blown to conspicious borrowed attacks.

We've got the nerve to live so low like this,

with nails bit to quick and teething blood so
warm.

The man who keeps sewing needles between his
teeth prefabricates every spoken word,

with no weapons to lay in front of me.

Robbed of my skills in social weaponry, robbed.

Impending was the omen, no choice but to sever
dead skin.

You reap what you sow to degrees you'll never
know.