Jan 2015
47.
I heard my own voice break, stutter once then stop it. I heard
A sentence started confidently halted by the sudden absence of a word.
Stumbled and I sputtered trying to find it back, something once so simple gone now. When you first met me, did you know you’d show me your scars?
I had a heavy heart, she carried a door, it’s shattered pane all wrapped in plastic and she asked if I could fix it, come by a little later help her put it back on hinges. “See, I’m far too upset to lift it and it’s not for my house,
It’s my mind's.” When you opened up the door, what is it you thought you’d find? But you see i never fixed a single thing in my life, and whats worse i dont know what im doing. Im attempting to make sense of this. Categorizing apathy with sanity, but one of the two I surely lack.
So i guess well just drown it, with poetry, liquor and repress any other facts.
But the pills made her sleep too much. And she couldn’t keep happy as a result so one day she just gave up on taking them.
And that day she had called you, she’d locked herself outside of her mind.
She was spiraling and spiraling and tumbling down into darkness.
Losing all faith in the light, the night whispered in her ear:
"If you dont want to live, theres no reason to continue here"
How quickly did you get there? And what were you thinking while pulling up? What fears flashed in front of you, taunted you, walking to knock on the door?
I remember it. That story you told me came back clear tonight here while writing. And you should know the feeling never left me-the weight of my heart-when you showed me the scars in your words, when I looked in your eyes and I heard what you said how you probably would’ve died were it not for to care for yourself, and how someone had stopped you. How you seemed to look through me to some old projector screen playing back the scene as you described it on a movie reel, as real as the minute when it happened, that memory moving behind me. Because this is still a huge part of my life, and its getting harder to find the difference between a pen, liquor and a knife.
Theyll all cause me harm, one will be temperate, the other will leave a permanent scar on my arm.
And I sit in my apartment.
I’m getting no answers.
I’m finding no peace, no release from the anger.
I leave it at arms length.
I’m keeping my distance.
From hotels and anything and blood on the carpet.
I’m stomaching nothing.
I’m reaching for no one.
I’m leaving this city and I’m headed out to nowhere.
I carry your image.
Thats me being honest
And if you hear me, I think of you often.
That’s all I can offer.
That’s all that I know how to give.
I heard my own voice break, stutter once then stop it. I heard
A sentence started confidently halted by the sudden absence of a word.
Stumbled and I sputtered trying to find it back, something once so simple gone now. When you first met me, did you know you’d show me your scars?
I had a heavy heart, she carried a door, it’s shattered pane all wrapped in plastic and she asked if I could fix it, come by a little later help her put it back on hinges. “See, I’m far too upset to lift it and it’s not for my house,
It’s my mind's.” When you opened up the door, what is it you thought you’d find? But you see i never fixed a single thing in my life, and whats worse i dont know what im doing. Im attempting to make sense of this. Categorizing apathy with sanity, but one of the two I surely lack.
So i guess well just drown it, with poetry, liquor and repress any other facts.
But the pills made her sleep too much. And she couldn’t keep happy as a result so one day she just gave up on taking them.
And that day she had called you, she’d locked herself outside of her mind.
She was spiraling and spiraling and tumbling down into darkness.
Losing all faith in the light, the night whispered in her ear:
"If you dont want to live, theres no reason to continue here"
How quickly did you get there? And what were you thinking while pulling up? What fears flashed in front of you, taunted you, walking to knock on the door?
I remember it. That story you told me came back clear tonight here while writing. And you should know the feeling never left me-the weight of my heart-when you showed me the scars in your words, when I looked in your eyes and I heard what you said how you probably would’ve died were it not for to care for yourself, and how someone had stopped you. How you seemed to look through me to some old projector screen playing back the scene as you described it on a movie reel, as real as the minute when it happened, that memory moving behind me. Because this is still a huge part of my life, and its getting harder to find the difference between a pen, liquor and a knife.
Theyll all cause me harm, one will be temperate, the other will leave a permanent scar on my arm.
And I sit in my apartment.
I’m getting no answers.
I’m finding no peace, no release from the anger.
I leave it at arms length.
I’m keeping my distance.
From hotels and anything and blood on the carpet.
I’m stomaching nothing.
I’m reaching for no one.
I’m leaving this city and I’m headed out to nowhere.
I carry your image.
Thats me being honest
And if you hear me, I think of you often.
That’s all I can offer.
That’s all that I know how to give.
