Sunday, May 18, 2003
beautiful words for an ugly person
"is that what you call a getaway? tell me what you got away with. cause i seen more spine in jellyfish. i seen more guts in eleven year old kids. have another drink and drive yourself home. i hope there's ice on all roads... and you can think of me when you forget your seatbelt.. and again when your head goes through the windshield...."
it doesn't matter how many sorry's you tell someone because they all seem hollow if you can't hear someone's voice and even then i refuse to believe them. i'm still lost up there. i'm still making up excuses for you because i want to believe. i want to believe that only nice people exist. that no one has shattered hearts, that pins are reserved for acupuncture not for the rape of someone whose heart was too big. that's what it feels like -- rape. i feel like i was tricked. that you got off on it. that you smiled when you told me, grabbing your cock, each one of my sobs, a grunt of satisfaction for you. in japan, businessmen break glass plates to rid themselves of stress, you break glass hearts to get yourself hard.
i think the sickest part of this ordeal is that you don't know what's off limits. i'm no longer cutie or hotstuff. you aren't allowed to comment on my "wonderful kisses." i don't know when we'll be able to talk again without me wanting to cry. i hear that comfort in your voice and it's still there. it still makes me feel all warm inside like popeye's buttery crisp biscuits oven fresh and ready to take home. i want to hate you but i can't. it's easier if i forget what you sound like. what you look like. what you say. what you said. all those things make you into a person and as much as i say i hate people, i can't hate you. i wish i could touch your skin again to find out that the blood running through your veins was cold. i don't want to feel this about someone that's so apathetic. i'm not really up for the excuses and i don't want to hear your part of the story. the parts i've heard are enough. if i painted a picture of you, it would be all in grey. neutral. if i painted a picture of me, i'd be flying -- heart on my sleeve, bruised but not broken. i'm still tender.
you're really something. (shit?). i might be miserable but sometimes i can't even cry thinking about you. i got more upset that my red chuck taylors were out of stock.
"...is that what you call tact.. you're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back... so let's end this call... and end this conversation..."
¶ 4:50 AM
|
"is that what you call a getaway? tell me what you got away with. cause i seen more spine in jellyfish. i seen more guts in eleven year old kids. have another drink and drive yourself home. i hope there's ice on all roads... and you can think of me when you forget your seatbelt.. and again when your head goes through the windshield...."
it doesn't matter how many sorry's you tell someone because they all seem hollow if you can't hear someone's voice and even then i refuse to believe them. i'm still lost up there. i'm still making up excuses for you because i want to believe. i want to believe that only nice people exist. that no one has shattered hearts, that pins are reserved for acupuncture not for the rape of someone whose heart was too big. that's what it feels like -- rape. i feel like i was tricked. that you got off on it. that you smiled when you told me, grabbing your cock, each one of my sobs, a grunt of satisfaction for you. in japan, businessmen break glass plates to rid themselves of stress, you break glass hearts to get yourself hard.
i think the sickest part of this ordeal is that you don't know what's off limits. i'm no longer cutie or hotstuff. you aren't allowed to comment on my "wonderful kisses." i don't know when we'll be able to talk again without me wanting to cry. i hear that comfort in your voice and it's still there. it still makes me feel all warm inside like popeye's buttery crisp biscuits oven fresh and ready to take home. i want to hate you but i can't. it's easier if i forget what you sound like. what you look like. what you say. what you said. all those things make you into a person and as much as i say i hate people, i can't hate you. i wish i could touch your skin again to find out that the blood running through your veins was cold. i don't want to feel this about someone that's so apathetic. i'm not really up for the excuses and i don't want to hear your part of the story. the parts i've heard are enough. if i painted a picture of you, it would be all in grey. neutral. if i painted a picture of me, i'd be flying -- heart on my sleeve, bruised but not broken. i'm still tender.
you're really something. (shit?). i might be miserable but sometimes i can't even cry thinking about you. i got more upset that my red chuck taylors were out of stock.
"...is that what you call tact.. you're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back... so let's end this call... and end this conversation..."
¶ 4:50 AM
|
