"Is it a boy?"
the cab driver hands me the receipt,
"You're too young and pretty to be so sad".
I agree that I'm too young to be this miserable.
I burst into tears as I scrawl a signature on the piece of paper.
But this boy I cry over. He hides behind a white doorway while my head is in my hands,
and I am crying, I am drunk, but I am not drunk enough to be excused from calling him a coward.
He doesn't understand,
my coping mechanism--catalyst--and the curtain that pulls the facade down is the *****.
Not that un-understandable, in my opinion, really.
And he thinks it'll be better for me to talk about it sober tomorrow
And I thought it would be better for it to not have happened.
And I think he's not going to get much better,
and it's too bad because he think I'll turn back into my desensitized self,
which is better
for him
but there is light that cannot be turned out now
without burning out, blazing, in this way
and all he needed to do was to hold me tonight,
and everything could've been better, would've been best
woulda-coulda-didn't
and now my bed is made, I'll alone rest.