• You push the top of that hair spray can down.
    Your so high,
    You have no idea the hole is facing your eyes.
    But it don’t matter anyway,
    Your hair is hard as rock, and the can’s empty.
    So it don’t bother you much.

    You stumble around your room, looking for your x-acto knife.
    You trip over your own feet and fall into the dresser.
    You catch yourself with your cut-up hands, then you hear a clatter of metal,
    Possibly from the impact you made right there.
    You look at your dresser-top and see that metal x-acto knife.
    You lift up your sleeves and see the game of tic-tac-toe from the party.
    But then something in the corner of your eye catches you, and pulls your attention elsewhere.
    You drop the x-acto knife and gaze at some photo.
    Photo? Is this me?
    This little child,
    Bad-quality picture,
    Innocent looking, but you see the troubles.
    Frown on the face,
    Crossing arms self-consciously,
    Thinking negative thoughts while the camera so happens to flash?
    Yes.
    It’s you.

    You wonder, How did that get there?
    I don’t look at old photos.
    It don’t do nothing to console me.
    It don’t liberate me from this miserable place.
    So what’s it worth, anyway?

    But now that you think about it,
    Things haven’t changed much, have they?