You realise that you don’t know me, right?
We talk – all we ever seem to do is talk – at night,
But you don’t own me, not a single part,
And even though it’s easy to spill
Sweet nothings in the fogged street lights,
Sometimes I feel like you don’t understand
That the words I say are meant to melt like
Butter in warm hands.
So now our little scene is set.
Now it’s okay to use my friends as a tourniquet.
Conversation between us seems to be
Common as more of a confession. I’m docile –
You hold me like a weapon, you bring me to your skin,
And I write to you like we’re both running out of time,
While I struggle to say something profound, something sublime,
And all the while I feel like I’m falling back into the mind
Of a child that years ago was me…
Could it be? I never changed and I simply didn’t see?
I’m just trying to help.
It’s easier if I pretend to be somebody else.
No, I’m better than that. I’m just scared,
I’m anxious and constantly unprepared
To tell anyone about me because none of it seems real.
If the feeling always seems fake is it license not to feel?
You want to dance, so I follow,
And I don’t really know the steps,
But for you… for you I would pretend,
Except I trip and I fall and you hate it when I bend –
To be honest? I don’t think that I can handle this right now,
But I have to, so for you, I will somehow,
Even if you don’t want to think that’s what you want.
Really, everybody wants a fixer. They always say otherwise,
But it’s perpetually proven a lie the size
Of a million unspoken regrets and messages left unsent.
There’s a perverse satisfaction to the action of a vent,
And I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to want,
I’m watching the world through a looking glass
So I don’t mind where I end up – I know, it frightens you. But…
I’m just like this now. I was already at my journey’s end.
So here I’m going to sit, like a phantom, serving tea to friends.
Image courtesy of Dimitar Belchev