I don’t remember the last time my arms have been properly at my side. There’s too much to pick at. Too much to fix. Too many raised surfaces and burn marks. You show me a man who won’t pick at his scabs and I will show you a lunatic. The ability to sit and let things things be and not move a muscle must be the most evil thing in the entire world. I don’t think I can imagine a life without the insufferable right to damage everything around me.

One can only begin to comprehend the instinctual desire to pick things apart. To alter what’s doing just fine by itself. To pick my face and hands til they bleed. To peel wrappers off candy and cigarettes. Wax and glue. You must admit to the inherent need to destroy and change our surroundings no matter where your spiritual beliefs lie. No matter how lovely,  Everything on earth must crumble and be picked apart piece-by-piece to make room for everything else. I’d like to find the most beautiful thing in the world and leave teeth marks. I’d like to sit at my father’s grave and tell him what I’ve done. I’d like to tell you I’m sorry and not mean a single word.   
The same way my pant legs and shoe laces gather seeds to fall off and grow elsewhere…
The same way the wind rips branches and roofs with no relent….
The same way the Earth opens up and swallows us whole. ….

Everything is picked apart, used, damaged and trampled into dirt to grow something better and the cycle goes on…