When I think of an honest man
I'm lost to find one in my hands.
Clenching you but holding bone
I'm dripping slow for those I've hurt.
Confession makes for a guilty room;
purified by open wounds.
Slipping through the gates that I choose
these openings may never close.
So sit me in this gaping chair
and run your fingers through my hair.
If you find the words that speak
Whisper to me at your peak.
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