Pick Me

sometimes i know that i’m dead already
my mouth is dry and my bones are ache
and im holding the knife as i walk thru my life,
wishing he would make a mistake
and pick me

Pick me off the hanging tree
where I’m just this marker of the breeze
that blows through those black memories
that cut the throat of freedom
 

freedom that I lived in once
i must have, ‘fore i was undone
i must have known its smell, its taste
i must have felt another way
besides cemented in my place
as killer lest i be the prey

there is no sense left to be made
no antidote for what has changed
for what is gone
for what is dead
for what he took
and what is left –
 

Just a girl
half-dead, that’s true
waiting, always waiting
to be picked by you.