Since the night I crashed the truck, I’ve had my jaw wired shut. For the first time in my life I cannot tell you a lie. I know I said that I’d rein in this poison in my veins, but my heart is stapled to a riverbed — somewhere in my head.
See, I lost my self-esteem back in 1983, when my mom and dad left me in the care of Aunt Irene. Oh, the things she said to me would bring a grown man to his knees. Guess I’m still there after all these goddamn years, — drowning in my fear.
There’s the face I used to wear, underneath that greasy hair. I could turn those blue eyes black with one hand tied behind me. There’s the glass that broke my fall — or was it really there at all? Maybe I landed with pride or maybe I’m still falling — yeah, I guess I’m still falling.
In the morning light, as I bleed on pavement, I search the sky for what was taken. I can’t talk, I only scream for what I lost inside of me. Now I am nothing. You are all I have left.

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