(no subject)
It has been a long road. I can still feel some of it, it has made nest in my lungs, so every time I breathe I am reminded that I once couldn't.
I still smoke cigarettes, so I can forget about it for a while.
I listen to songs older than me, so it doesn't remind me of when I was younger
I do not look upon those memories fondly
and passion just isn't what it was
I cry when I think of my younger self.
she didn't deserve to die so quietly
I would have told her to look after her spine
to not let anyone break it with their boots
so she can be folded small enough to fit into their tick-able boxes
I still cannot stomach your kisses
I sit in grey rooms with grey people and it is still fresh on my lips
While I imagine myself with my head out of a car window
Smoking a brand of cigarette I am not familiar with
The boot filled with instruments,
a bag full of books that never fail to make me cry,
we sit by old houses, we can relate to how it feels to be forgotten
I have no name, I am the bird that rests quietly in your stomach
and one day, if you allow it, we will be free together