1. |
rearview
03:31
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i should've died that night. i should've lost it all, in hindsight. the rearview reflection of my life now seems so pointless and undefined. i wasn't scared of the other side. it was a permanence i thought i could always defy; and i did that night, i danced with death. but i walked away with bleeding hands and a tremble in my step.
i'm a nervous wreck. a constant worry, an endless panic.
i'm probably better off dead.
there's a car crash in my head. burning with existential dread. lay me down in the coffin of my regret. is this life worth living?
i cried that night, almost as much as when papa died. i walked the thin, red line, and i saw my life flash before my parents' eyes. i wasn't scared of the prospect of dying, i was terrified of my family lying my lifeless body down for one final sleep, and the maggots eating away at my disease.
i feel so weak, i'm unscathed, and it's killing me.
i'm caving in with my dreams.
when i die what will i see? will i wake up beneath my grave, screaming into the bleak eternity? is life that unforgiving?
i saw everything end while nothing actually did. the shattered glass wrote on my palms as my hands released from the steering wheel, and i could feel my spirit hugging my spine, holding onto my body as tightly as the seatbelt held me. my family wept into my hospital gown and i breathed sigh after sigh of relief.
i was a deer in my own headlights, and it's taken a long time to realize
that this is why i survived. i will thrive.
i am alive.
i could've died that night. i could've lost it all, in hindsight. the rearview reflection of my life, now seems so meaningful and redefined.
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2. |
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hold my picture close, or maybe dont't, as you brace yourself for what's bound to be the most tragic goodbye that i've ever wrote. i'm a hypocrite at best, an alcoholic trainwreck, barely fit for the shoes of a man that i found in a bargain bin.
i should have just let you in.
i don't know who the hell i am anymore. i paint the words i've grown to regret on the back of our bedroom door, and it always stays open, so you can't see what i wrote when i thought i gave up. i can't keep my fucking mouth shut.
our postures fold and you set to stone, as you pack your bags to venture out into the unknown. there's a lump in my gut, and a knot tied to the back of my throat. i'm a disaster, i'll attest, a psychedelic panic, a collective of mistakes, and a temper that i never learned to manage.
i embody abandonment.
i don't know who the hell i am anymore. i paint the words i've grown to regret on the back of our bedroom door, and it always stays open, so you can't see what i wrote when i thought i gave up. i can't keep my fucking mouth shut.
i know i should be better, this is a storm you shouldn't have to weather; but i can't do this alone, i'll never learn to fly without my feathers.
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3. |
curbstomp
02:27
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can't catch a break, and it's all my fault. i've been kicking at rocks, but only ever hitting asphalt. fucked up my life beyond repair yet again;
stuck playing pretend with who i used to be.
i guess you can't tell, i wear this smile so well. my head's a god damn mess, the furthest thing from optimistic. self image shatters glass, guilt sinks beneath the surface, of the bathroom scum i've become; unwoven, pathetically undone.
spit in my face, it's what i deserve, knock me down, slam my teeth straight into the curb. the concrete slides down my throat, and my blood coats the smoke i exhale with contempt to make sure you know,
that my heart beats slow, and i've grown so cold. i can't take this anymore. so just throw me to the wolves, my fist shatters glass, and my guilt sinks beneath the surface of this bathroom scum i've become;
unwoven, pathetically fucking numb.
i guess i’ll never learn. so paint my jawline all over the curb.
break my brittle, little bones, show me the meaning of sticks and stones.
i guess i’ll never learn, so paint my words all over the curb.
break my brittle, little bones, because i did this on my own.
i did this all on my own.
sticks and stones may break my bones, but my words destroyed a home.
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4. |
sickened
02:38
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i am sickened to the core. my insides stain the hardwood floor; left my keys hanging in the door. i don't know who i am anymore.
no wonder why you washed your sheets, and now i know where you got the bruises on your knees. don't bullshit me, i know where you sleep. your word is poison from a tongue that'll never be clean.
i never meant anything.
now i'm just a memory; i'm a catastrophe.
you never ended up wishing me well, i was just another trophy for your cobweb shelf. a spiffy little souvenir, just like everyone else. i saw him through your window from down the street, and you lied about it through your tea-stained teeth. you're dead to me.
it was just a fallacy.
just your sick, twisted fantasy.
attention coming to you with ease.
all these broken boys just begging to please.
you've sickened me to the core, puke caked to the god damned floor.
spoiled rotten, you've left me torn. i don't know who you are anymore.
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree; your fathers' daughter, there's no mistaking. miserable at best, you rip through my chest, just like you did the rest.
karma doesn't kiss and tell, it just hurts like hell.
you hurt like hell.
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5. |
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pour concrete down my throat, and stem the flow of words you wish i never wrote about you; a tragedy embued and entirely consumed
with the fire from far worse times. i will spark the flame needed to burn the inside of a little white lie, and the source of the color of your dead, cold eyes.
i am not enough, but i'll make pretend, i guess we'll make it all up.
i am not enough, but i guess that's what they call love.
it's never enough.
pour second chances down the sink, and watch my courage disappear in the blink of an eye. i'm on the brink of losing my mind; i guess you will find me entangled in unfamiliar sheets, a poor attempt to forget a heartbeat. honestly, i don't really sleep, i lay awake and wonder if you ever think about me.
i am not enough, but i'll make pretend, i guess we'll make it all up.
i am not enough, but i guess that's what they call love.
it's never enough.
i am not enough, so fly, my love.
i'll learn to keep my mouth shut, because i am not enough.
pour concrete down my throat.
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anchorage blue Victoria, British Columbia
sad music.
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