Ask me once again.
Maybe the answer will be different.
Maybe I've grown tired of confirmation.
Maybe I've tried too hard for too long.
Proving a truth that won't be believed.
I fear for a future where all there is
is your constant questions.
And I am lost in constant answers.
Is that a hope worth saving?
You are a soul who is waiting
for a reason to point and shout
that you knew it all along.
Maybe you like to wallow.
Maybe it'll make a good EP.
Maybe I'm just a stepping stone
in your melancholic alcoholism.
I could be just a bottle
held to feel empty
drained of sparkling juice
and then filled up with doubt ****
to sprinkle amongst familiar crowds
or the saddest "I told you so."
Maybe I'm thicker than that.
Maybe you've spread yourself too thin.
Maybe I'm ready to let go
of your minimal digital sins.
I tell my self this one thing
over and over,
and hold the repetition hostage.
Like I do your constant questions.
"forgiveness is
don't suppress.
just forget.
let go of all regrets.
yours and his.
even if you are the only one
who is asked again.
you are the hope worth saving.
nothing more.
nothing less."
So ask me once again,
maybe the answer won't be given.

I guess I'm just not the type of girl you'd write pretty love songs about.
It's much easier to write about how I'm a strong wind of fabricated concern in your mind,
rather than your golden girl.
How I enchant everyone but you.
How I must do it on purpose,
Because I love the attention.
I love the applause.
I love the lust and your love lost.
But if you read just one chapter of my own book of songs,
You'd see crayon writing that led to you all along,
outlining your salmon voice,
and your coffee eyes,
the kissing of your peachy skin,
my feelings you compromised.
But you needn't sneak to see,
I wish to be a silver spirit
that lives in your sight alone.
I worship you when I'm not on defense.
When you're not on the fence,
Walking tightrope, with me in your right palm,
while desires, goals and worries, doubts and fears,
and your book of scarlet nightmares are all in your left.
Teeter off and lose your footing.
You know I'll hit the ground first.
Soften the fall for you and your words.
Write on free faller.
Let's call it all off.
You pretend to be grey and modest.
You must do it on purpose,
because you know
I hate losing your attention,
I hate your forgotten applause,
I hate my lust for you
and here, your love is lost.
But even now that my stare is fixed
on you and your book
You still won't turn to look
because you don't believe in me
and you don't believe in ghosts.