When my thumb brushes a small stack at the bottom, I pull it out, flipping the pages from one side to the other. They’re filled from top to bottom with words. One page draws me in more than the others though. Maybe it’s the unusual style, some words traced over to make them bold, others crossed out. Maybe it’s the splotches of smeared ink, like it’s blended with tears. Or maybe it’s because this is the only one with a title.
Whatever the reason, I hold the paper close to me, scoot back against the wall, and read.
I Have a Name
The wicked, the starved, the beaten down child.
The wounded, the tormented, the one in denial.
You’ve lost someone, have you?
Your heart or your self?
You’ve crashed and you’ve burned and you’ve crawled straight through hell.
You wonder if they see you,
if they hear you,
if they love you.
You wonder of the stars,
do they burn for you or
do they burn you?
You wonder if they’ll remember,
or if it’s better,
or if it’s numb.
You have a name butyou don’t know it.
When you stare at your reflection, you see words,
and there are three:
Weak
Wasted
Worthless
But I know a secret.
It’s a big one.
I know a secret
And it’s a song.
Such a quiet melody,
I’ll have to whisper so you hear me.
It’s the sinners and the broken, the corrupted and the beaten,
