And the sirens cry loudly. I’m reflexive. I cry loudly. You put my picture in framing. Hung forever, left me strangling. Called me baby. And with your nature reversed and our home as our cage, you caved and you asked “is this coming of age?” As you climbed out the window, your face cold as stone, you lifted the towel. Your wrist showed the bone. Held my breath in the ER, I swayed as I stood. I tried to stay steady and protect you the best that I could. And you pretended to sleep the entire ride home but I heard you crying when you felt alone.
So I’m slipping into the stained glass of this muscle memory. With my lungs like an index, I’ll be wading through context clues. And things I should say like, “I wish I was brave enough to say this to you.” But the effort it would place on a lasting impression.
I felt me slipping back to all of my weird ways, avoiding coffee and parties and never taking subways. But there’s nothing to fear here; I am always okay. And there’s nothing to fear here, it’s the weight of my busy brain.
‘I write a lot. It’s mostly lies. I fall in love to pass the time. I never fit. I never tried. I need the struggle to feel alive. All I want are records on my stereo. I’m better off, baby, when I’m all alone. That’s a lie. Dirty cigarettes and a dirty soul. Tell me I’m enough. I am dying to know what it’s like. This sound is fucked, but I don’t mind. It’s wrong enough to feel alright. I think a lot, like all the time. I get in trouble when things get quiet. All I want are records on my stereo. I’m better off, baby, when I’m all alone. That’s a lie. Dirty cigarettes and a dirty soul. Tell me I’m enough. I am dying to know what it’s like.’