i live in a breakable, takeable body

[trick]

and i sing at certain times like my life is at stake
because you're only as loud as the noises you make...

who's to blame

you're going on about who's to blame,
making a point about all our shame,
and i think back to that night
when i went out looking for the fight,
to hurt myself without the knife,
to really feel my life.
and i left my house just dressed to kill,
accompanied by winter's chill,
numb to the bone,
empty and alone.
i was asking for it that night
and i don't care if it's right
in the world of p.c. and therapy
to sit here, referring to me,
referring to rape,
as something i'd take.
because i don't see his face
and i still pass that place--
that brick wall corner
where i was a former
victim of my own design--
because it was my own crime.
and my anger was seething
as easy as breathing
as i told him the conditions
despite my position
despite the circle of cold steel
that i refused to feel.
and i never really thought about
blaming him for my setting out
to self-destroy,
just because he was a boy.
maybe it's not fair that
i went out there with that in mind,
or maybe it's not fair that
it was out there for me to find.
and better me than some other
girlfriend, wife or mother,
because i had my way that night
when i went out looking for the fight.
yeah, i was asking for it that night,
and i don't care if it's right.

and every tool is a weapon,
if you hold it right.