Sitting there, wrapped in a terrycloth robe,
She’s squeezed into a ball, biting her lip in self-sorrow,
Trying not to cry, not to care that she’s fucked things up, (again)
There’s a hang-over in her hair, her lips are sticky-dry,
Cup of sugary tea sits, untouched since it was made at 11am,
The radio blares its requiem for this morning, crackling and fizzing,
While she simply sits, and for once she is speechless
Why say the things she said, said someone else’s hang-ups,
Did she or didn’t she realise, that it would drive someone away,
The man who makes life, seem glistening and enticing,
And for one so intelligent, why can’t she find the words,
Some kind of way, to make it right,
To fix the problem, like she fixes her play station with a screwdriver,
Open it up and locate the problem, then fix it with knowledge she already has
Looking in the mirror, at frizzed hair and panda eyes,
Shaking her head and trying to laugh, but only able to stop herself crying,
Sensitive like the skin on her thigh, slightest touch kills her,
How did she ever get so attached, when the thought terrifies her,
Knowing subconsciously, it would come to this moment,
She would let ghosts of the person she used to be, take over her unwilling,
Once more she’s standing sentry, holding the revolver to her head
If she gets past this moment, if it all works out ok,
If the pit of her stomach doesn’t fall out, and she stops wanting to apologise yet again,
If the sun sets, or rises,
Will she be damned for pushing away, using words like spears,
Attacking a friend who made her feel safe, even when she didn’t understand him,
Morrissey stopped singing, she thought it was a sign,
(With that thought in mind, perhaps life is better enjoyed when under less scrutiny),
Now she has made her mistake again, she must suffer the consequences again,
But fearful, ever hoping for that one last chance,
To show that the scared wordsmith, the vile accuser gesticulating wildly in her head,
Who preaches sermons, to an unwilling congregation,
Is really just not her, not me, just a remnant of a disturbed passing,
Of something that died long ago, when I was younger and softer and more impressionable.
again
She’s squeezed into a ball, biting her lip in self-sorrow,
Trying not to cry, not to care that she’s fucked things up, (again)
There’s a hang-over in her hair, her lips are sticky-dry,
Cup of sugary tea sits, untouched since it was made at 11am,
The radio blares its requiem for this morning, crackling and fizzing,
While she simply sits, and for once she is speechless
Why say the things she said, said someone else’s hang-ups,
Did she or didn’t she realise, that it would drive someone away,
The man who makes life, seem glistening and enticing,
And for one so intelligent, why can’t she find the words,
Some kind of way, to make it right,
To fix the problem, like she fixes her play station with a screwdriver,
Open it up and locate the problem, then fix it with knowledge she already has
Looking in the mirror, at frizzed hair and panda eyes,
Shaking her head and trying to laugh, but only able to stop herself crying,
Sensitive like the skin on her thigh, slightest touch kills her,
How did she ever get so attached, when the thought terrifies her,
Knowing subconsciously, it would come to this moment,
She would let ghosts of the person she used to be, take over her unwilling,
Once more she’s standing sentry, holding the revolver to her head
If she gets past this moment, if it all works out ok,
If the pit of her stomach doesn’t fall out, and she stops wanting to apologise yet again,
If the sun sets, or rises,
Will she be damned for pushing away, using words like spears,
Attacking a friend who made her feel safe, even when she didn’t understand him,
Morrissey stopped singing, she thought it was a sign,
(With that thought in mind, perhaps life is better enjoyed when under less scrutiny),
Now she has made her mistake again, she must suffer the consequences again,
But fearful, ever hoping for that one last chance,
To show that the scared wordsmith, the vile accuser gesticulating wildly in her head,
Who preaches sermons, to an unwilling congregation,
Is really just not her, not me, just a remnant of a disturbed passing,
Of something that died long ago, when I was younger and softer and more impressionable.
again
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