I used to say so much but now my words are chalk in my mouth and I can’t spit them out.
Lately I don’t even try, for Stockholm has taken hold and I’m bound and clutching to that empty sweet bottle of silence,
trying to resist the urge to quench my thirst,
drench my lungs until they burst with a violent reminder that no one cares what I say.
That even she no longer cares what I say.
Now I let them do the talking while I do the watching.
I do the changing and let them do the faking.
Never again will I dislocate my limbs to hold on.
I’ve already burned my pride to stay gone.
I shattered my reflection for a step towards feeling like I belong and realized I was wrong to think infinite longing could make anyone stay.
Especially not when everyone only looks at my body and my face.
So I’ve come to terms with the fact that the home I’m always searching for cannot be found in any person, prize or place.
As those bricks turn to dust, mementos and memories scatter then settle just the same.
While visions of laughter unravel in a house surreal and un-natural where I thought my skin and my bones didn’t matter.
Before the pain and the rubble we would talk for hours.
Trading stories and power in the safety of crumpled soon crumbling sheets.
There I’d keep my worries to sleep, and dream of a world where we wouldn’t have to leave.
But dawn did come and with its light you walked away.
I close my blinds at sunrise, content to forget this day.
Instead I think of that life where we practiced honesty before brightness, in the confines of your sheets
I need to let go of the gorgeous rinsed out darkness which still binds us.
I have to stop grinding words passed gritted teeth,
why did you have to make it so easy for me to speak?
Now I’m laying here and realizing with this all this quiet it’d be awfully easy to sleep. I think I should probably just sleep.
