When you cry. But I’ll be there to hold you tight. And I would kill. I would fight. To keep you close.
I’m a horrible person. I’m a fuck up. I think there’s a theme to my braining. Or maybe there’s a theme to my life. I fuck things up. Every time I find someone worth telling my secrets to, and laughing with, I fuck everything up. Who here is surprised? Raise of hands? Didn’t think so. I want to scream, or cry, or both. I want to run as far as I can, and never stop. I want to use a sharp knife and drag it down my skin so it bleeds and drips and makes things real.
And I can’t say. And I don’t know how far I’ll go. And I can’t say. And I don’t know how far I’ll go. Gone away.
I get tired of explaining my scars. Cutting isn’t me trying to kill myself. It isn’t trying to call for attention. It isn’t a cry for help. Plain and simple, it’s me trying to focus the emotional confusion of pain to something physical. I can’t deal with emotional pain. My brain and body can’t process it. It doesn’t make sense. Physical? Yes. Physical makes sense.
It’s the same old, same old song. Gone away. It’s my whole life, in words.
Emotional abuse I take. Always have. It doesn’t bother me. Well, no that’s not the right way. It doesn’t, uhm, I don’t understand it. I’m used to it. I don’t know what’s right and wrong. I don’t know what I should or shouldn’t put up with, or when I should leave. Physical abuse, however, that’s easy. Hit me. I dare you. I’m a world away. — If I don’t fight back, first.
Do you pray in the night? Can you appreciate the wind? And I won’t care. I won’t fight. I need you close to sing. It’s the same beginning. Gone away.
I hurt someone close to me. Probably the person I care most about. I thought I was making a joke. I’m an asshole. We all know this. I make jokes. Sometimes mean jokes, sometimes nice jokes, sometimes bad jokes, sometimes good jokes. Anyone who knows me expects this. He caught part of it, and caught the response of someone else. Between the two of us, it turned out bad. I can’t apologize. I try to, but he doesn’t trust me anymore. … Shit. There it is. I just realized that. Trust is everything to him. Fuck. Maybe that’s why I’m so panicked. Why I know that I’m a horrible person. Why I know that I fucked everything up. Why I know how much I hurt him. Oh gods. How could I do this? Because I’m a horrible person. Why does it still surprise me to realize this? Why does it ever shock me? Fuck. Sigh. I give up.
I would fight to keep you close. I keep singing the same way. I won’t live, if you died, if I can feel you in the wind. And this is me, it’s my life.