I'm washing my hands
I feel dirty unkept and unclean
There's fake blood soaked into my jeans and my body
My mom doesn't like it
Her boy's being violent
She said why do you have to die in the movies you make with my sons and why with a gun?
And I'm stuck at the question
Stuck and my childhood is ending in silence
Ending with my mother crying

A story I've never forgot
Her mom, the car, the lot
The church, the shot, my mom, 21
I'll never throw a punch, I'll never touch a gun
Even a fake one
I'm washing my hair
3 roommates in Washington heights
They're fast asleep in the night and it's late
I try not to wake them
A towel in my mouth to help with the pain from my head
A man threw a bottle in front of the huge pentecostal
And called me a word that I used to take straight to my heart
When I tell it now, I skip around and leave out that part

A story I've never forgot
The word, the heights, the cross
The church, the night, my age 21
I'll never throw a punch, I'll never touch a gun
Even if I could've used one

They put up a painting of my grandmother in a museum
It felt good to see it
We'll cook her recipes this holiday season
I'll think of the man who attacked without reason
No recognition to be seen in his eyes
He's talking to no one and picking a fight with a statue of Christ
I remember that night I wanted to hurt him
But he wouldn't deserve it
He wouldn't deserve it
He wouldn't deserve it