My heart is salted earth,
a home with a dry and cold hearth,
with nothing but wet leaves
against the cold concrete.
they wouldn't burn, no fire would catch.
but i wouldn't strike up a match to figure out.
that would be a waste. id rather not be wasted time.
although i don't have a choice on whether or not someone decides to try and tend a garden.
on this barren land, broken bones and scarred earth.
no one to till the soil. although i wouldn't expect that from anyone.
there is blood in the soil. the dirt.
the dirt on my hands, on my face. bleeding.
i'm not sure if i would want to be saved.
