S
o when I die, burry me inside the deepest of graves
farther than six-feet-under, because if I’m that close
I won’t behave. I’m too close to him, through the earth
I feel his sins, and they keep me alive until
T
omorrow. When the quiet life subsides, there’s no blue
left in the sky, and the life we thought we lived was just
a happy little lie. **** affection, I don’t need it, all my
lies will supercede it, and I don’t need some therapist
O
ver-analyzing my thoughts, because I’m already dead.
Love was just a word we made up to feel better about
the holes in our shoes and the ones in our hearts, and
maybe I’m not over him, but I’m over the thought of him
R
eaching out and grabbing my hands, he’s a boy, not
a man, and he’s too afraid to whisper ‘I love you, too’
because he’s too busy trying on a new pair of running
shoes, and I know he won’t ever love me, even though
G
od and him both tell me to wait and see, and I know he
won’t stay, even though he swears he’s anchored to me
and I know when the sun sets, he’ll be nowhere to be found
just burry me at least seven feet under the ground, ‘cause the
E*
arth will love me more than him, and the frigid temperatures
will remind me where I am, and the sun will bleed down promises
(not so empty this time), and my corpse will be the breeding
ground for new life. I don’t love him, but I’m glad he killed me…
I always wanted to be a flower.
Now I get to be a whole bed of them.
storge: another word for affection
