it's cloudy out
and I can tell you're feeling like the sky, about to bust
you seem to say too much or maybe too little,
and you're holding on to all the things you shouldn't be holding on to
but how the hell are you supposed to let go if your hands are about to break?
so you sit and trace the veins that only she used to trace,
and they never ask you how your insides feel,
only how the outside looks
but you say to yourself that's okay,
because they don't need to know anyway
the essence of you is still threaded in her,
and you can feel the strings withering away
so you write letters you'll never send saying,
"If you can still breathe without me,
just know your pride is less fragile than the person you're hurting
and it's about to rain here."
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
it's cloudy out
and I can tell you're feeling like the sky, about to bust
you seem to say too much or maybe too little,
and you're holding on to all the things you shouldn't be holding on to
but how the hell are you supposed to let go if your hands are about to break?
so you sit and trace the veins that only she used to trace,
and they never ask you how your insides feel,
only how the outside looks
but you say to yourself that's okay,
because they don't need to know anyway
the essence of you is still threaded in her,
and you can feel the strings withering away
so you write letters you'll never send saying,
"If you can still breathe without me,
just know your pride is less fragile than the person you're hurting
and it's about to rain here."
