Lost in all my languages,
lost in all my style,
buried in my bandages,
murdered – almost murdered – by the miles.
Bereft of half my heritage,
bruised by broken stones,
I know that I don’t merit it,
but won’t you please just give me what’s my own?
With all of these darknesses dawning upon me,
I’ll use the heart that was given to me.
Looking for a new kind of hangover.