Baby, I Make the Corner Cry
The serenity and the choking feeling
I do not feel my feet move. It is as if I am a ghost, not conscious of my own movement across the grungy carpet and out into the rain. The ground is spinning, and the background voices have all collided into an unbearable hum, surrounding and swallowing me. I take another drink from the bottle of caramel coloured fire in efforts to ease the pain. There is too much noise; there are too many voices and I can hear yours in all of them- Lying to me. Telling me everything is going to be alright when it is more than obvious that this is nothing but a lie.
The rain in heavy on my clothes, weighing down the burden that is my soul. Trapping it. The street is cold and hollow as I cross it and follow the trail of purple street lights still leading down across the bridge and down to the harbour where the boats are like gravestones in a cemetery. I can't breathe. I tell myself it only takes one step in front of the other. Take a drink; make it all go away for a while. Everything is spinning! I can hear you crying! Stop! I can hear him screaming at you. I want it silenced- Stop! Take another drink; make it all go away for a while.
In my mind, I see her. I see her pretty, virtuous blond hair fanning out around her small fragile face. She is smiling just for me. She is trailing kisses down my neck, pulling off that over-exposing top. But somehow, I do not see her as the flat-chested, broken tease from the bus. She is vulnerable. She is looking for a way out. She is looking for love, but I realize that she is looking for it in the one place it can't be found. Me.
I can see myself. On this empty, littered street. I am alone. The rave is behind me. That foreign, organic cigarette is behind me. Molly is behind me, so are the other girls. The black suit and tie pawns are behind me. That broken prison of a home is behind me. And you, dear mother- You and your hopeless ways, and your cowardly death are behind me. And so is he. All there is in the distance are the rows of dim, purple street lights leading me forward.
The choking feeling comes back in waves, and so does the nausea. The liquid fire won't get rid of it any more. My feet are tripping as I look out to the cars below. I could end it all right now- Climb up onto the rail, one shaky foot at a time, stand in that cold, harsh wind and jump into that sea of metal, grey headlights and concrete.
The fire is raging inside me, but my surface is chilled with the ice of the wind. The fire builds up in the most volatile of ways until all I can do is let it escape. So I scream and cry and curse and swear until my lungs are raw and there is nothing left to let go of. Until there is nothing left but me, alone and vulnerable as I have always been. I will never be anyone's hero- I couldn't even be my own.
The rain in heavy on my clothes, weighing down the burden that is my soul. Trapping it. The street is cold and hollow as I cross it and follow the trail of purple street lights still leading down across the bridge and down to the harbour where the boats are like gravestones in a cemetery. I can't breathe. I tell myself it only takes one step in front of the other. Take a drink; make it all go away for a while. Everything is spinning! I can hear you crying! Stop! I can hear him screaming at you. I want it silenced- Stop! Take another drink; make it all go away for a while.
In my mind, I see her. I see her pretty, virtuous blond hair fanning out around her small fragile face. She is smiling just for me. She is trailing kisses down my neck, pulling off that over-exposing top. But somehow, I do not see her as the flat-chested, broken tease from the bus. She is vulnerable. She is looking for a way out. She is looking for love, but I realize that she is looking for it in the one place it can't be found. Me.
I can see myself. On this empty, littered street. I am alone. The rave is behind me. That foreign, organic cigarette is behind me. Molly is behind me, so are the other girls. The black suit and tie pawns are behind me. That broken prison of a home is behind me. And you, dear mother- You and your hopeless ways, and your cowardly death are behind me. And so is he. All there is in the distance are the rows of dim, purple street lights leading me forward.
The choking feeling comes back in waves, and so does the nausea. The liquid fire won't get rid of it any more. My feet are tripping as I look out to the cars below. I could end it all right now- Climb up onto the rail, one shaky foot at a time, stand in that cold, harsh wind and jump into that sea of metal, grey headlights and concrete.
The fire is raging inside me, but my surface is chilled with the ice of the wind. The fire builds up in the most volatile of ways until all I can do is let it escape. So I scream and cry and curse and swear until my lungs are raw and there is nothing left to let go of. Until there is nothing left but me, alone and vulnerable as I have always been. I will never be anyone's hero- I couldn't even be my own.