Post by Laura on Dec 20, 2005 20:21:24 GMT -6
I can't stand the look. You know, emptiness of a stained-sheet bedspread and how the covers are pulled to the edge of the post curled up as if someone were tied.
I can't stand the look. Your eyes made funny little fires. I swore I would never regret a feeling. This feeling grew inside me like a fungus, now it's the size of a tumour and getting rid of it would rip a part of me right off.
Am I that shallow? You thought so, quite possibly. And I wonder how it felt to be you through me. You know ... when you f*cked me without permission and how I said I wanted more. You know, more forgiveness from a Lord. Just one that was listening.
And all of you hate me. I don't write about love. You say it's only hurting me to say these things. How I'm ugly and my heart keeps getting darker the more I speak about it.
Nobody told me. You would think at nineteen you would understand how this all works. You would understand. This is what is meant to be.
I broke my index finger and I tore some ligaments in my leg. You know, when you pushed me to the surface and when my eyes bled red, you only said 'more liquor'?
And if the vodka stained my face and the smudges from your fingers were imprinted, I would be a mess. Because now I hate Saturdays.
I could get over this. But in some strange way I love to run around frantically waiting to see what I'll do next. Because I'm sorry about my own free will, I'm sorry for living this life.
And I would be sorry for giving this life, if I could.
I can't stand the look. You know, torn souls. I broke some bones and pulled some strings but they repair so much easily. If only this bandage could heal the insides. And maybe I'm just bleeding profusely on the inside and that's where the pain is coming from...or maybe I'm just - honestly deserving - an echo to you now. Pain comes in surround sound, and now I'm looking at that empty, stained bed frame that I used to call comfort. F*cked me without a cause. Without permission. Without dignity. Without love.
How comforting.
I can't stand the look. Your eyes made funny little fires. I swore I would never regret a feeling. This feeling grew inside me like a fungus, now it's the size of a tumour and getting rid of it would rip a part of me right off.
Am I that shallow? You thought so, quite possibly. And I wonder how it felt to be you through me. You know ... when you f*cked me without permission and how I said I wanted more. You know, more forgiveness from a Lord. Just one that was listening.
And all of you hate me. I don't write about love. You say it's only hurting me to say these things. How I'm ugly and my heart keeps getting darker the more I speak about it.
Nobody told me. You would think at nineteen you would understand how this all works. You would understand. This is what is meant to be.
I broke my index finger and I tore some ligaments in my leg. You know, when you pushed me to the surface and when my eyes bled red, you only said 'more liquor'?
And if the vodka stained my face and the smudges from your fingers were imprinted, I would be a mess. Because now I hate Saturdays.
I could get over this. But in some strange way I love to run around frantically waiting to see what I'll do next. Because I'm sorry about my own free will, I'm sorry for living this life.
And I would be sorry for giving this life, if I could.
I can't stand the look. You know, torn souls. I broke some bones and pulled some strings but they repair so much easily. If only this bandage could heal the insides. And maybe I'm just bleeding profusely on the inside and that's where the pain is coming from...or maybe I'm just - honestly deserving - an echo to you now. Pain comes in surround sound, and now I'm looking at that empty, stained bed frame that I used to call comfort. F*cked me without a cause. Without permission. Without dignity. Without love.
How comforting.
