Ana, Come Clean Me.

Ana, where you been?

I've since degraded into sin.

Come clean me.

Hear my little song-like words.

So tired of stanza elegance.

I only want to pen

My sentiments

For you...

I'm blackened

And I'm begging for a stroke of light

From angel wings tonight

To wipe me chaste and white.

Yeah, I know it sounds greedy

But as you know

You are the only one in this fucked up shithole of a world

That can see me

For what I really am.

Pick me up around seven.

We'll go to the corner store

And shop around for Post-Its

So we can lay on my cushiony bed

And pass notes of only a line

That ache to be read...

"Ana, come clean me."

It was a song I had in my head

In the restroom.

And hummed it along the way

Back to my desk

To type it up.

But here I rest.

They never come out the same.

So I'll say...

Ana, come clean me...

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Gary Mills's picture

Why is it the words rattle around in our head and seem so locked in place, and yet when we drop them out, the hit the papper and just "plop" ? anyway, I like this.