Cut You.
by rewired,
01/22/03,
3:38 AM.
She's laying down in he dark
on the couch and I ask her if she's okay,
because she looks sick, I suppose she could
be tired, but she reveals to me in words,
with closed eyes, that she sees the things
that are plaguing her, and I ask
what they look like, wondering if hers
truly resemble mine, and she
says that they
are ugly.
Behind her eyes lies a window
to another world, it's just that
it's foggy or closed sometimes.
Behind her eyes lies a conduit
to another place, just like
behind my eyes, just like
the boy I met when I was
much younger and just after I
still had hope for
this life.
And I hate her father.
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate what it is he's
done to her and her
fragile heart.
Her father is him,
the man who beat my friend
so many years ago and he
haunts my mind
like a ghost.
In the resteraunt, I hide the radio
in my bookbag so he couldn't see.
In the back kitchen, I'm trying to escape
and in the growing shadow there,
he finds me by the fryers in which
the fillet Christian fish have
been left by the manager to drown in
grease gone cold.
And he held the blades
of the sizzors in his hands
as he looked down on me
from seven or eight feet
and as I looked up at him,
and held the sizzors' handles,
dark thoughts racing through my mind:
like that I could take the upper hand
like how with a flick of the wrist I could
end this cold desire for venegence
against the hands that weaved the
sights that broke me
and he said to me in that
ever-present sarcastic, second-meaning
way of his, as he looked down on me,
seeing right into my concideration,
a strange understanding in his voice
drifting on through,
"if you're not careful," he said,
"people will cut you."
And I hate her father
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate what it is he's
done to her and her
fragile heart.
And I hate his father,
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate his absolute authority,
his controlling edge, he'd
never even let them have
a TV set.
And sometimes these
dreams scare
me, but:
Her father isn't him,
the man who beat my friend
so many years ago.
And she isn't my old friend, and I'm
not her or my old friend, but my
mind reveals that my emotions
reveal a totally different and
buried, fully-functional
perspective.
He's not the man, the father, and this
is just a dream. The man's been gone
for fifteen years, never laid
a hand on me. My eyes, they were
enough. He still haunts my mind
like a ghost.
So am I so drawn to her
because of associations with
the past? So do I feel so
belligerent with authority
because I can't let go of what
power and the fear that feeds it
can really do? And what about
my closed eyes: am I sick or
just tired? Am I lying down?
And what about my closed
eyes, and what about
that radio that
I'm hiding?
Lie down and dream, I'm here for you.
I'll listen, make sure the ugly monsters
in your head won't win over you tonight.
I'll be your hero today, my girl, I'll
save your day, I won't be powerless
like I was so long ago with my
fragile, lashed friend.
And you, meet me in the dark, at least
in my dreams you've got a face now.
Hold the blade, you can't control us
anymore. I don't fear you. You can
no longer hurt anyone, we are free, so
please just hold the blade, I won't cut you,
I just want to see in your eyes that
you truly recognize that I could
if only I wanted to.
Let me feel your fear, see that
you see the truth and see it clear:
with a flick of a wrist now,
I could cut you.
[ 22 January 2003: Message edited by: rewiiired ]
by rewired,
01/22/03,
3:38 AM.
She's laying down in he dark
on the couch and I ask her if she's okay,
because she looks sick, I suppose she could
be tired, but she reveals to me in words,
with closed eyes, that she sees the things
that are plaguing her, and I ask
what they look like, wondering if hers
truly resemble mine, and she
says that they
are ugly.
Behind her eyes lies a window
to another world, it's just that
it's foggy or closed sometimes.
Behind her eyes lies a conduit
to another place, just like
behind my eyes, just like
the boy I met when I was
much younger and just after I
still had hope for
this life.
And I hate her father.
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate what it is he's
done to her and her
fragile heart.
Her father is him,
the man who beat my friend
so many years ago and he
haunts my mind
like a ghost.
In the resteraunt, I hide the radio
in my bookbag so he couldn't see.
In the back kitchen, I'm trying to escape
and in the growing shadow there,
he finds me by the fryers in which
the fillet Christian fish have
been left by the manager to drown in
grease gone cold.
And he held the blades
of the sizzors in his hands
as he looked down on me
from seven or eight feet
and as I looked up at him,
and held the sizzors' handles,
dark thoughts racing through my mind:
like that I could take the upper hand
like how with a flick of the wrist I could
end this cold desire for venegence
against the hands that weaved the
sights that broke me
and he said to me in that
ever-present sarcastic, second-meaning
way of his, as he looked down on me,
seeing right into my concideration,
a strange understanding in his voice
drifting on through,
"if you're not careful," he said,
"people will cut you."
And I hate her father
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate what it is he's
done to her and her
fragile heart.
And I hate his father,
I hate that man, it burns.
I hate his absolute authority,
his controlling edge, he'd
never even let them have
a TV set.
And sometimes these
dreams scare
me, but:
Her father isn't him,
the man who beat my friend
so many years ago.
And she isn't my old friend, and I'm
not her or my old friend, but my
mind reveals that my emotions
reveal a totally different and
buried, fully-functional
perspective.
He's not the man, the father, and this
is just a dream. The man's been gone
for fifteen years, never laid
a hand on me. My eyes, they were
enough. He still haunts my mind
like a ghost.
So am I so drawn to her
because of associations with
the past? So do I feel so
belligerent with authority
because I can't let go of what
power and the fear that feeds it
can really do? And what about
my closed eyes: am I sick or
just tired? Am I lying down?
And what about my closed
eyes, and what about
that radio that
I'm hiding?
Lie down and dream, I'm here for you.
I'll listen, make sure the ugly monsters
in your head won't win over you tonight.
I'll be your hero today, my girl, I'll
save your day, I won't be powerless
like I was so long ago with my
fragile, lashed friend.
And you, meet me in the dark, at least
in my dreams you've got a face now.
Hold the blade, you can't control us
anymore. I don't fear you. You can
no longer hurt anyone, we are free, so
please just hold the blade, I won't cut you,
I just want to see in your eyes that
you truly recognize that I could
if only I wanted to.
Let me feel your fear, see that
you see the truth and see it clear:
with a flick of a wrist now,
I could cut you.
[ 22 January 2003: Message edited by: rewiiired ]
