Wither my bones so narrow,
transparent in the moon light
fall onto old practices,
still preaching the new
I am beginning to walk my fathers broken bottle footpath,
the shadow creeping
just beyond the door.
Look into your casket locked heart,
grief ridden dampened mind
and would you not find a piece of you so murky,
no light could cleanse it?
No, we are all the same.
Me and the father who broke me down bruise by bruise,
beautifully tragic whiskey sip,
until the stomach would burst,
and ribs would crack,
but we are all the same.
You and me and my fathers drinking problem,
and the man who leaves after he ***** his nightly score
and the girl who seeps her feelings onto a page of words like she seeps her blood onto her sleeve
and the mother who coughs up pills because she's too afraid to die tonight
but not tomorrow,
tomorrow she will be brave.
Tomorrow we will all be brave,
and one day I will be brave and I will swallow the pills,
and in them will be the guilt that has lasted me 7 years,
and the anger that has lasted me 8,
and the regret from the boys that left my bed
and the tears that I shed for them
and the self loathing of not waking up someone else,
and bad tendencies of coming on to strong,
when I've always been so weak,
and the frustration of to many broken mirrors,
and cursed photographs,
and how his hand felt so much like yours when they wrapped around my throat,
and the way I couldn't breath felt all to familiar
And when I swig all this back,
and chase it with some gin,
I will be on my way to happiness.
And you will too,
and maybe my father,
but he would probably chase it with whiskey.
because we are all the same.