Texty: The Casket Lottery. Midway.

The red knife
comes to mind.
The one
that bled nothing
but rust
this time years ago,
ages ago.
Stuck in the ground by rabbit traps
that mark my way back home.
Cold days will come
faster now.
Feels like I'm growing old.
And I know
no point in all of this.
Hard days
are wearing me thin.
Not yet.
Please.
When things were simple
and I was young
(and there were no real walls),
I had dreams about these days.
It's funny how things change.
"It will be nice to be strong."
"It will be nice to be proud."
But I am still not safe.
And I know no point in all of this