Chilled The F*ck Out

Every time I’ve knocked myself down

I’ve gotten back up again

but while my back is to the floor

and my mind is torn and gray

I gather my losses in both hands

batwings against my fingers

and I call on them for comfort

which seems kind of stupid, now…

they would never help me back up

I think they like me right

where I am,

broken like them;

When I’m on my feet and everything

is screaming along smashed

I forget to gather my joys

in both hands, where I could hold

them to me, chickadee wings

against my fingers

call on them for comfort…

that would be smart, actually

they want to help me stay up

marionette strings between

their wings and my limbs

I think they’d like me to stay

exactly as I am,

free like them.