when I was 17
I ate a lot of gold caps by myself
I laid around my parents parsonage
wondering why I hated myself.
I broke most of the things I didn't like
maybe for the first time in years
I just wept.
I looked around at all the things I'd collected
how nothing adequated to wealth
I asked questions outside of myself
but found no help
I left welts on my body
scars on my hands
I shattered glasses just to feel
this I figure
is what writing is for
mirrors held up to our souls
so we can see again...
indicative of limitlessness