The Edge of the Blade
I’m checking boxes like I’m supposed to do
Drinking plain OJ till the clock strikes two
A desk job keeps the cigarettes at bay
And the 88 engine hasn’t stalled today.
I’m “doing fine,” that’s the script I read
To the friends who give me the keys I need
I’ve got the housekeeping of a mind in pursuit
But there’s a worm at the core of the heavy fruit.
I’m waiting for the headlights to turn in the drive
Checking my pulse just to feel alive
I’m looking for a map in a paper fire
And a saint who’s a slightly better liar.
And I’m looking for comfort at the edge of the blade
Asking the shadows why they’re not afraid
I’m seeking a blessing from a haunted room
Trying to find a rhythm in the impending doom.
It’s a desperate kind of irony I play
It’s like asking Sylvia Plath to tell me I’m okay.
I relate to the ones with the weathered skin
The survivalists wondering where the world’s been
The ones on the far side of youth who look at my face
And see a soul that’s already run the whole race.
“How do you know?” she asks with a sigh
How do you know the way the light goes to die?
I tell her I’ve been middle-aged since I was ten
Just a kid learning how to be a has-been again.
I drink the screwdriver to forget the debt
Then the morning juice to forgive the regret
I’m a revolution waiting for a PhD
In the science of how they all look at me.
I want to be seen, but I’m scared of the light
So I trade the peace for a sharper fight
Wearing my discipline like a leather strap
Just a temporary fix for a permanent trap.
Yeah, I’m looking for comfort at the edge of the blade
Asking the shadows why they’re not afraid
I’m seeking a blessing from a haunted room
Trying to find a rhythm in the impending doom.
It’s a desperate kind of irony I play
It’s like asking Sylvia Plath to tell me I’m okay.
She’s not okay.
I’m not okay.
The air in the jar smells the same.
Hence the mystics.
Hence the shame.
I’m doing fine.
(I’m doing it now.)
Just don’t ask me how.