If I Die Tell Nate Jones I Love Him

bite my nails
and wish for days
that never end
of a maze
of hands that
hurt during concerts,
something prince,
hillbilly, here.

toothpaste and regret,
cheating snakes out of their skin,
commas that keep creeping into my
sentences and life, sick for you,
serious, up.

the show knows the girl
with which I danced
and lost, some allegory
for future moons
forgotten by my friends
but knees and needs,
twenty bucks and bullet soundtracks.

bite my nails
and rot in hell,
leaving clues for those
involved to dissolve
when I am long gone.