White
Chance.
The word tosses itself around so violently, doesn’t it?
I apparently hold it so well.
Maybe there is only one.
One to ruin; one to destroy
Some are lucky enough to have a couple.
Others will never know the term.
I think you’ve learned from the others though.
I’d like to think so, anyway.
You claim such hopelessness, probably because it’s all you think you know.
But if you truly believed that,
you wouldn’t care like you do.
You wouldn’t know that word, “chance.”
Sometimes it stings a bit, right?
Sure, you can give up.
You can let go, only if you let yourself.
Keep the stereo down and overlook thinking.
But only if you want.
Don’t let a simple song remind you of my existence.
Never mind how it felt to be pressed tight against the unattainable.
Just forget how you wanted much more.
It’s as easy as it sounds, I promise.
Go ahead and hold on to that guilt
and the thought that you’ve done something wrong.
Don’t forget that this is
all
up
to
you.
Chance.
The word could slice throats, I’m sure.
And it seems so harmless.
Maybe you should think it about it a bit more.
Or maybe you’ve already out ruled that thinking thing.
I wouldn’t blame you if you did.
Perhaps, I should give up on thinking myself.
It could lead to a confession, an epiphany,
or even a fuck or two.
They say I’m prettier on my back.
And I’m sure you’re aching to drown in my screams.
Or you can stay underground-buried, if you’d like.
And never brush against skin again.
And pretend like you never heard of this ‘chance.’
(There’s that word again);
Act like it was all before your time.
I’d take some sort of pride in dumping the last bit of dirt on top of you.
I’m sure I’d smile as if I did all of the work myself.
You want to be ruined; you want to be destroyed.
I only have chance.
They say I hold it well.