iLoveYouWithaKnife
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2002
- Messages
- 8,351
I still find myself every now and again,
sitting in the same red bar stool
I used to sit on every night
two winters ago.
I'd sit there and wait for that
fucking phone to ring,
to hear his voice on the line,
telling me he was coming home.
I would get such a strong feeling
of anticipation
in the pit of my stomach
every time that phone rang.
Then the feeling would
fade into dissapointment.
I wouldn't allow myself
to sit there any longer,
ripping myself apart with the
why is he doing this to me?
questions...
And just before my eyes
flooded with tears
I got beer to go home with
and stumbled into the night.
I would get so drunk,
that at that point,
I didn't care that he wasn't
sleeping in my bed.
And frankly,
I didn't give a damn
if he was in someone else's.
Then I would wake up-
sad- wishing he was there with me-
wondering if he fucked some whore.
Then I would just get so drunk again
so I didn't have to think about it.
There's only so many times
you can be let down though.
At one point you just
stop expecting things.
I don't want him to
think he broke me.
I've been like this for years.
I've got this image that
I stand proud- I stand strong.
I'm an emotional mess inside.
This body is the only thing
that is keeping me together-
So I don't fall apart
at the human eye.
He had this way about him-
He had this way to make me
smile so fucking bright.
but it was usually washed away
by the salty stream of tears
and the black mascara.
We'd sit on the couch
in our second apartment,
watching movies-
sharing the dinner I wanted to prepare.
And sometimes
I'd have to get up to go to the bathroom
and fan my hands in front of my eyes
and splash water on my face.
And the continue with dinner.
Truth is-
I don't know why I'd
just about start to cry.
I think it was because
I loved that fucking kid
so, so much.
I don't know if he knew it.
And after it all fell apart,
he told me he was scared maybe,
of getting hurt again.
We all have our reasons,
known and unknown-
And I don't hold any of it
against him.
Sometimes though,
I just get so sick of asking myself
what I could have done.
I'm sick of standing in front
of that goddamned mirror-
seeing those half sunken red eyes
and making a crooked smile.
He used to make me smile.
I miss that smile.
We tried...
nothing less of hard.
Sometimes things just don't work.
sitting in the same red bar stool
I used to sit on every night
two winters ago.
I'd sit there and wait for that
fucking phone to ring,
to hear his voice on the line,
telling me he was coming home.
I would get such a strong feeling
of anticipation
in the pit of my stomach
every time that phone rang.
Then the feeling would
fade into dissapointment.
I wouldn't allow myself
to sit there any longer,
ripping myself apart with the
why is he doing this to me?
questions...
And just before my eyes
flooded with tears
I got beer to go home with
and stumbled into the night.
I would get so drunk,
that at that point,
I didn't care that he wasn't
sleeping in my bed.
And frankly,
I didn't give a damn
if he was in someone else's.
Then I would wake up-
sad- wishing he was there with me-
wondering if he fucked some whore.
Then I would just get so drunk again
so I didn't have to think about it.
There's only so many times
you can be let down though.
At one point you just
stop expecting things.
I don't want him to
think he broke me.
I've been like this for years.
I've got this image that
I stand proud- I stand strong.
I'm an emotional mess inside.
This body is the only thing
that is keeping me together-
So I don't fall apart
at the human eye.
He had this way about him-
He had this way to make me
smile so fucking bright.
but it was usually washed away
by the salty stream of tears
and the black mascara.
We'd sit on the couch
in our second apartment,
watching movies-
sharing the dinner I wanted to prepare.
And sometimes
I'd have to get up to go to the bathroom
and fan my hands in front of my eyes
and splash water on my face.
And the continue with dinner.
Truth is-
I don't know why I'd
just about start to cry.
I think it was because
I loved that fucking kid
so, so much.
I don't know if he knew it.
And after it all fell apart,
he told me he was scared maybe,
of getting hurt again.
We all have our reasons,
known and unknown-
And I don't hold any of it
against him.
Sometimes though,
I just get so sick of asking myself
what I could have done.
I'm sick of standing in front
of that goddamned mirror-
seeing those half sunken red eyes
and making a crooked smile.
He used to make me smile.
I miss that smile.
We tried...
nothing less of hard.
Sometimes things just don't work.
