Negation.
Wounded
Tumbleweed,
I can see your skin shining in the sun, still taste the liquor of your smile. I hope you find this and all your tattoos are still exactly where they need to be. Please stay the way you were when I left you and don't return to a place where I cannot reach you.
Sorry that we don't exist. I guess this would have been an apology letter if it wasn't a last goodbye. I guess this whole mess could have been covered up and blown over. Your laughter in my memory is like empty echos of ghost whispers in hallways. I still feel like I'm playing hide and seek, and I'm waiting for you to come and tell me where to find you. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
I think it's your pride combined with your inability to say the word "no". That's what pisses me off. I hate you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry we don't exist.
I'm sorry that I get so choked up when I see you around. When I know your smile is as cheap as a hat trick and your face is a lie and I don't care anymore. I'm sorry that I knew all about your dirty secret and I didn't say anything. Sorry for nothing because you don't show a goddamn fault in your masquerade. That's why they wanted you and called your name so loudly. Drugs have a way of seeking you out when you stoop that low.
Anyways, they were after you, and you were hurt. It hurt. I could see it in your face. You were hurt by them. And you became this entity, blowing in the wind too fast and too hard. You breezed right through them. You blew right through me. You didn't have enough time to flower or bloom.
I'm tired of you covering it up, wearing your skin like a mask and letting ink talk in place of your defiance and your stubborn face. I'm so sick of the bullshit, I want you to notice me. But you don't notice anything. You notice what you want and what you want is what wounds you. I might have been fucked up for a while but I'd never do what they did. Not like you care. I'm just another piercing in your mouth, I'm another place in the canvas all over your flesh.
I wish I were a ghost.
Anyways, it's summertime now and I have no clue where the real you might be. Probably letting the wind go right through your bones and running far away from the places you'll have to face someday. Weeds always fall apart. I hope this letter finds you well and I'm sorry that I hate you.
And I can still see your skin shining in the sun.
I can see your skin shining in the sun, still taste the liquor of your smile. I hope you find this and all your tattoos are still exactly where they need to be. Please stay the way you were when I left you and don't return to a place where I cannot reach you.
Sorry that we don't exist. I guess this would have been an apology letter if it wasn't a last goodbye. I guess this whole mess could have been covered up and blown over. Your laughter in my memory is like empty echos of ghost whispers in hallways. I still feel like I'm playing hide and seek, and I'm waiting for you to come and tell me where to find you. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
I think it's your pride combined with your inability to say the word "no". That's what pisses me off. I hate you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry we don't exist.
I'm sorry that I get so choked up when I see you around. When I know your smile is as cheap as a hat trick and your face is a lie and I don't care anymore. I'm sorry that I knew all about your dirty secret and I didn't say anything. Sorry for nothing because you don't show a goddamn fault in your masquerade. That's why they wanted you and called your name so loudly. Drugs have a way of seeking you out when you stoop that low.
Anyways, they were after you, and you were hurt. It hurt. I could see it in your face. You were hurt by them. And you became this entity, blowing in the wind too fast and too hard. You breezed right through them. You blew right through me. You didn't have enough time to flower or bloom.
I'm tired of you covering it up, wearing your skin like a mask and letting ink talk in place of your defiance and your stubborn face. I'm so sick of the bullshit, I want you to notice me. But you don't notice anything. You notice what you want and what you want is what wounds you. I might have been fucked up for a while but I'd never do what they did. Not like you care. I'm just another piercing in your mouth, I'm another place in the canvas all over your flesh.
I wish I were a ghost.
Anyways, it's summertime now and I have no clue where the real you might be. Probably letting the wind go right through your bones and running far away from the places you'll have to face someday. Weeds always fall apart. I hope this letter finds you well and I'm sorry that I hate you.
And I can still see your skin shining in the sun.
♠ ♠ ♠
drabble, because I can