i don't think you're going to be allright, anymore.
i don't think you're going to be allright, anymore.
you are the unexpected winter three weeks into spring that tears through my clothes and exposes me to truth, that seduces me into letting my mouth ruin me.
our veins are slippery with arsenic- pulses slowed- yours pronounced through the back of my hand.
you ask me why it can't work between us.
i start to cry and hide my face in yours; i hope to disintegrate here in this half-mine bed, this historical lying place. this is where all the lying began- this is where you told me about love and what it felt like. this is probably the same mattress that held you through the very bad things i'll never tell anyone you've done.
for what reason,
why am i so quiet?
even when i've collapsed on your bathroom floor- it is only for want of quietness.
we are so in love we no longer know how to float downstream. we thrash about like your damp little bedroom is the titanic- we've got to get out of this somehow.
and i don't know about you- i only know that i never have, and that i never will.
the awful truth is that i will love you through eight more winters; i will watch the lakes dry up when i'm graying and frail and you'll still be pinned beneath my ribcage- you will remind me again & again to forget sooner before all is lost.
i don't have my thoughts today, only yours. for all the times i wished i knew what insanity was- hoping for sympathy pains if it would lessen your aches- i'm sorry.
i deserved better; i didn't know it at the time.
you are the unexpected winter three weeks into spring that tears through my clothes and exposes me to truth, that seduces me into letting my mouth ruin me.
our veins are slippery with arsenic- pulses slowed- yours pronounced through the back of my hand.
you ask me why it can't work between us.
i start to cry and hide my face in yours; i hope to disintegrate here in this half-mine bed, this historical lying place. this is where all the lying began- this is where you told me about love and what it felt like. this is probably the same mattress that held you through the very bad things i'll never tell anyone you've done.
for what reason,
why am i so quiet?
even when i've collapsed on your bathroom floor- it is only for want of quietness.
we are so in love we no longer know how to float downstream. we thrash about like your damp little bedroom is the titanic- we've got to get out of this somehow.
and i don't know about you- i only know that i never have, and that i never will.
the awful truth is that i will love you through eight more winters; i will watch the lakes dry up when i'm graying and frail and you'll still be pinned beneath my ribcage- you will remind me again & again to forget sooner before all is lost.
i don't have my thoughts today, only yours. for all the times i wished i knew what insanity was- hoping for sympathy pains if it would lessen your aches- i'm sorry.
i deserved better; i didn't know it at the time.