letters say it better
before work ended i tried to write down everything i had flowing through me, but everything isn't flowing through me. everything's blocked. by too much noise, too much surface, too much something, and i cant get to it. it all comes out sounding like some simple "i need something that i cant define" that i cant get right on my own, somehow. and that's it. i download four songs for my ride home. old by a decade. old by an old me who would have listened when i wasn't in this place im in now, old in the way that sticks somehow. a sticking sadness. familiar. the way old songs are the only songs that will do. and i drive off. and i need. and i try to not need something but i do. and a few blocks from home i cant manage to just walk through my door and into this room ive been shelling off by, so i dont. i go into a local bar and ask the girl for two shots of jameson. sip, shoot. sip, shoot. i spend five minutes there and nod to the bouncer on my way out. i find a cigarette case on the porch floorboards that reads "just by chance" on its cover, but its empty. but i find a cigarette half smoked in the ashtray and light it. standing there in the night air i try to remember other saturday nights in my life other than this one. parties. dorm rooms. bon fires and bedrooms that double as living rooms with couches for beds and candles for lamps. whiskey sippers and guitar strummers. and i miss those days. those days i had friends who were just as miserable as me. and now, they are there, but they are less creative. and the only way we share it now is to drink it. or fuck it. or complain about it. see... i miss singing it. i miss feeling it together, when he looks over from the drivers seat after a song that's felt too much like life we lead and our eyes know we understand one another. lonely never felt so not alone. and my guitar had more music in it then.
ive got all this skin covering up my insides. and no one to touch it. there's no one there to get underneath it. no one trying. i cant fall asleep in a spoon i want to be in. there just isn't one. and i can't for the life of me figure why anyone might want to anyway. its like im just alive enough to die.
im being that dramatic one again. i know. but i miss falling asleep in a kiss. i miss pressing my face into someone's neck and needing that so much that the world that's ripped me off of so many things just fades away. i hate and love my mother. and the quiet. and the way winters cold stings. like a glass of whiskey down my throat, ive learned to swallow whats hard. but im fucking sick of my life.
they should've loved me better. i was only a kid.
i didn't deserve this.
i might have fought back and left 8 years ago, but i didn't win. angry fists and eyes full of neglect still tuck me in every single night, and trap me.
and i just want to feel like i know what it feels like to go home to love. that's what home is supposed to be, isn't it?
...
ive got all this skin covering up my insides. and no one to touch it. there's no one there to get underneath it. no one trying. i cant fall asleep in a spoon i want to be in. there just isn't one. and i can't for the life of me figure why anyone might want to anyway. its like im just alive enough to die.
im being that dramatic one again. i know. but i miss falling asleep in a kiss. i miss pressing my face into someone's neck and needing that so much that the world that's ripped me off of so many things just fades away. i hate and love my mother. and the quiet. and the way winters cold stings. like a glass of whiskey down my throat, ive learned to swallow whats hard. but im fucking sick of my life.
they should've loved me better. i was only a kid.
i didn't deserve this.
i might have fought back and left 8 years ago, but i didn't win. angry fists and eyes full of neglect still tuck me in every single night, and trap me.
and i just want to feel like i know what it feels like to go home to love. that's what home is supposed to be, isn't it?
...