(written January 5, 2007)
the blows are unexpected
they sneak in through a left open window
or bleed out from the contents of a song
leaving behind purple rising bruises
in places marked easy-to-hide
because this is the kind of pain meant to be kept solitary
like ghost ships full of forgotten treasure
that only i can see
after a five shot night of whiskey
or a twist tryst with someone who calls you
by every name but your own
that only i can see
after a five shot night of whiskey
or a twist tryst with someone who calls you
by every name but your own
as if my face casting shadows on your bedsheets
needs to be blurred out or painted over
made into some unrecognizable fantasy
that just cements all those grade school slurs
and the party invitations that missed my post box
every year
i grow so weary of these re-writes and character studies
ever the muse just thrown into a new set and form
by a different artist's hand
after awhile someone else's lines turn into my own
and i lock the bathroom door behind me afterwards
watch black streaks of borrowed eyeliner slide down my skin
as i feel nothing but the cold tiles under my feet
ever searching the mirror reflection
to find who i am anymore
it is then the marks become visible
gashes that spell out every weakness and lie
and i think to myself
that there are not enough tears in one girl's lifetime
to make this ever okay
maybe you should have just forged my passport
and made me into someone from your ink stained stories
at least then i could read ahead and know how it was all
supposed to end
needs to be blurred out or painted over
made into some unrecognizable fantasy
that just cements all those grade school slurs
and the party invitations that missed my post box
every year
i grow so weary of these re-writes and character studies
ever the muse just thrown into a new set and form
by a different artist's hand
after awhile someone else's lines turn into my own
and i lock the bathroom door behind me afterwards
watch black streaks of borrowed eyeliner slide down my skin
as i feel nothing but the cold tiles under my feet
ever searching the mirror reflection
to find who i am anymore
it is then the marks become visible
gashes that spell out every weakness and lie
and i think to myself
that there are not enough tears in one girl's lifetime
to make this ever okay
maybe you should have just forged my passport
and made me into someone from your ink stained stories
at least then i could read ahead and know how it was all
supposed to end
i have been meaning to leave a longer comment here, one of these days, but never seem to find the right moment.
ReplyDeletebut finding this place on the web has been one of the best discoveries of the last six months for me. you have to so many beautiful things to say, and you express it so well, through your music and your words. in both the love and the pain of existence that you're describing...well, you help other people, who are struggling with many of the same things.
that is all, for now. thank you for creating this.
Thank you, thank you very much.
ReplyDeleteI'm a bit speechless and touched that you feel that way, and that my words and choice of music helps with something/anything.
xoxo
you're welcome. and the words and music do help -- they help to cut down on the isolation a bit, you know?
ReplyDelete