Flypaper

lets play a game
where i paint over the scars on my body
blue and green and orange and gold.
what’s left anymore?
i wanted a life beside you
and you wanted my skin
airbrushed and retouched daily.
what can i give to you?

lets play pretend

that if i leave
it will be more than one big giant
punch to your ever inflating
ever suffocating ego
that i am a slave to.
that when i go you’ll see how i
wanted so much and dreamed so much more
than what we had

i am not ready to face it
because i don’t want this to be wrong.
i can’t face another failure.
i can’t face that kind of knowledge about myself.

don’t think it’s you, oh, though it is.
every night i want to push you away and pull you close at the same time.
don’t make my mistakes
and don’t run away.
but sometimes i just want you to go.
don’t let me push and pull.

perhaps i can tie myself down
handcuffs,
so my arms can’t move themselves or you around.

can i stand that vulnerability
(outside the bedroom?)

where is the line anymore?

i'm a realist
i'm a romantic
i'm an indecisive piece of shit

do you even understand
how it felt to be confirmed in you
my worst fears for myself?
i don't want to be empty.
i can no longer believe i am.
i am not some shell to be filled by you.
i am not some empty girl you can toy with.
you say i'm nothing
you say i'm everything.
you say you see me
how can i believe that
when you only see in me what i tell you of myself?

i can't think anymore tonight.

i can't touch you for fear of what you'll feel.

(oh, but isn't it always like that for me)