Nylon

Scalpel

You’re terrified of me leaving
And I’m terrified of you
No one would believe me
If I said the things I should

Cut me leave me open
You’re a curious boy
Scalpel on the table
Like the ones who came before you

Apple in the garden
You couldn’t help but take a bite
In the footsteps of your brothers
Claiming your God-given right

Nylon

Never wished anyone dead
Never bore any ill will
Until I tasted something bitter
Bit my tongue as I laid still

Walls of navy and nylon
Wrapped round my brain
Up the river I reach Charon
And he takes away my name

I laid as a woman
But I died a child
So I hope you’re as sorry
As you were vile

Now I wish upon a star
For gore and morbid vengeance
With loathing in my heart
And a remarkably pure conscience

I don’t like May

I don’t like benches
I don’t like may
I don’t like tents
The scent of clay

I hate your teeth
And hate your nose
The flash of you
In a strangers pose

I don’t like hands
The ones that take
I don’t like tents
I don’t like may