sticks and stones by: T.C.

As they spoke the words that I let crush the very foundation of my soul,
I climbed under and rock and hoped to die.
My rock was a sleeper sofa in an abandoned  garage with my truck’s exhaust 
Filling the void in the air and my soul. 
How could she say I was a murderer when even the detective could see it was an accident.
I understand now though, because it wasn’t long before I was convinced of the same.
Useless, worthless, hopeless monster is what I came to see in myself,
As I clung to their every word as it was the definition of my spirit.