The words are twisting around me,
wringing me out like a wet towel.
The tune is stretched and thin
as if it's an ode to the last of my happiness.
It speaks to me almost as loud
as the ghosts screaming in my ears,
except the unprescribed medication
I drown myself in
doesn't keep it out of my head.
I have to remind myself daily --
they don't know you
they don't care about you
the words aren't sung about you.
But how could they not,
when they ring so true?
How can they not
when my stomach turns
to the time of the music,
when the tears leak out of my eyes
the same way the last notes
leave the guitar?
How can they not
when they're the only bridge to reality
I have left?