It's seeping through my bones like some kind of poison:

Where brains meet the flesh,

Morality dissolves —

Obsession, now, the patron of the soul;

My Bible in hand, yet a weight.

I know

Styrofoam apples are perfect.

I am not sweet,

And I do not nourish.

You are Autumn leaves, you

Crumble beneath my winter boots.

Guilt cracks my clavicle, but I cannot refrain;

I remember, you were soaked in pain,

Rained on like plastic trees.

They said God,

Won't you save her?

I said Pastor,

I'm too far,

And the lightning came to tell me

Of my sins:

Rejection of my nature,

And destruction of my vessel;

Cold unrepentance, for faith that I'm better;

Creation to escape my skepticism.

Hurt people hurt others —

Am I hurt enough

To justify it?

The answer is No

In any circumstance.

The answer is,

I am wicked.

The answer is,

I'm lost —

And you know how I hate to feel foolish.

I know

Styrofoam apples are perfect.

I am not good,

But I must flourish.

You were Autumn leaves; it's

Snowing now.

And if I don't run, I'll die.

I am broken ribs and

Shredded polystyrene.

My Bible in hand, yet a weight.