Could I bury my head in your chest bones?

Unlike the smell of rain on country road sediment I can not find the tears to make my trauma relevant There is no sweet scent found in my complex petutlance I wish my mind quiet; when its thoughts are all Old Testament This level of self-loathing; to date, has no precedence Though all my acts of selflessness have never afforded me benevolence Could I bury my head in your chest bones? Maybe then I'll find out if I am worthy of your true elegance?