Prodigala

Things get done here,
 so don't ask me for hands to hold out.
 They're held up by their own underneaths.
 No, not for the trusters that trust that they can be home returners,
 all dismentioned, all disgathered.
 Around here are white walls
 and they stay white walls.
 White, white, white walls.
 Past those hands,
 past those wrists are the arms
 decorated with a constellation of holes
 the size of the cigarette burns
 that marks the faith
 in delirium return.
 Around here are white walls
 and they stay white walls.
 White, white, white walls.
 Around here...
 Around here, things can only get done when the hearts starve.
 Around here,
 they know what they need to move on.
 They need to mar,
 need to maul and to spite
 and swallow down sleep.
 And fucking repent.
 And fucking repent.