Choking on your Fingers

I seem to hum
to make things casual
I like to read the insecurities
inscribed on the toilet bowl
Every scale, Every eye
adds a message just for me

Close to fine, but far away
these running thoughts are out of breath

Acids and enzymes
make me rust
My bleeding throat
keeps things real

Don't I die with
every day, or month?
the seconds, even, seem so long

downhill
nowhere
the wrong path
i drag this ball and chain

Close to fine, but far away
What the hell am I thinking?
In the fog of shame-faced mirrors
I can't find my reflection
without finding someone I hate

When the lights flicker, but won't die
and perfection causes worst of pain
We give in to the sickest shame
and these seconds seem to last forever