Eight to one. The painful art of waking up my tongue. Late to come cause I’ve been coughing up a fragile lung. Ache my bones. The needle dragging is predictable. Eight to none. It’s never coming down to breaching skulls. There’s no true love in defending a sharpened edge. Doubling down while you’re hedging your bets. Shy to speak only when control is out of reach. I can see that these are lessons no one asked to teach. Just a leech. You tipped the scales expecting more from less. Overreach. Nothing ventured nothing gained I guess. Justice doesn’t take providence’s place. Out for blood when you’ve got none in the game. Scratching pictures but you’re not in the frame.