Wool

I'm not rough around the edges, I'm
jagged on the inside, I'm
jagged as the treeline, you
might not have the will to see it

Because my skin is smooth,
and I've been told I look
fucking innocent and sweet
and when you're looking in my eyes it's not
what you want to find, you

Want to see something beautiful and free,
not manacled to some crooked ribs like mine

And I
I listen to ugly music and I don't
understand the words, but I
wish I was as tough as them,
could finally kick one to the curb instead of
forcing all of them to swerve
and hit my body, but

Hey I got to sit today
with this little girl named Maisie,
and I kept her up too late,
but she was warm there in my lap, and she wished
all of my anxiety away- well for a little while anyway,
but it didn't last and now I want to take
a bat to my own car

But that'd be unprofessional because
I am still at work, so I can only dig
at my dumb hurt like usual with
words, like I do when I'm avoiding all
the little things so I can focus on
avoiding the bigger things,
like
falling in the dirt.

So now
I can't take a warm shower, or
lock my front door.
Things are broken,
the bills unpaid, and my couch is ripped wide open with
all the feathers littered on the floor, where I'll
lay among my sweaters and wish
that I was made of wool because
then I'd always be warm and
pretty damn useful

But instead I'm just
rough in my guts, I'm
rough in my insides, and I'm
jagged as the treeline.