...and I just can't get used to this routine,
dragged from death to bed and then again,
forced to know and longing to love
a stranger I met on the subway.
...and I don't feel right in these clothes,
around these people,bound by laws
that make me the greatest,
yet keep me so low.
...and I miss something I never knew
I really had,
like summer mornings or frail music
or cold coffee cups.
...and I feel that this shirt is making me look fat,
that I should be more "flirty",
that the bags under my eyes aren't a sight
worth looking at.
...and I'm thinking about ghosts
while I should be thinking
a flower which could've blossomed,
but chose to wither
under the sun.
...and I want to cry my feeble nature
into a distorted laugh,
to stir the dust to which
I'll someday return.
...and I'm lingering on every crappy verse,
dreaming and weeping and counting
patterns in reverse...