In Quantity
sweet young skin
'Conor Oberst'
and it's something you've heard a thousand times, god, probably more, but it has as little meaning as the branch you snapped last week. Conor Oberst. It's what they call you when you're not 'useless waste of space', when you're not 'alcoholic', not 'anorexic'. It's what your parents named you and it could mean less to you.
Yet it's all the people seem to whisper as you pass through the back entrance, it's all people want you to write and it's all people will address you as. Conor Oberst, the singer, the writer, the stupid washed up man with a guitar and a trembling voice. The kids in school said 'you'd never make it' and you agreed.
You never did.
Make it, that is.
Because it's just standard after standard with you. It's - it's like having a BMI of 17 wasn't enough. How 16.5 wasn't, how 16 wasn't, how 15.5 seems so far ahead and how you know when you reach it, if you reach it, it'll never be enough.
Nothing ever is.
"Conor! Conor!" and the girl is pretty and pale and you force a smile and a lazy drawl and you sign her poster and you wave to her friends and, with your arm around her bony little shoulder you feel gravity crush around you with a flash of a camera and you know tomorrow it'll be somewhere up on the internet.
'Hasn't he put on so much weight?'
'Is that Conor Oberst?'
and there'll be critic after critic and really; they're your best friends. You've been one all your life. The weight critic. The voice critic. The writing critic. The drinking critic. It goes on and on and on and you'd have low self esteem if you weren't the most arrogant person you know. You'd have low self esteem if you didn't think you were so sickeningly unique, so special.
You wish Mum had drowned you in that claw foot bathtub. Wish it hasn't been Padraic. Wish you'd turned blue enough to match your mind, skin pale enough to fade out into the white porcelain. Padraic my prince and even dead, he was better than you. Even now you can't resist his lifeless allure and even dead Mum said his name more times than yours. That meaningless, ordinary name.
The bath in your hotel room has gold handles. You can almost feel them under your hands.
and it's something you've heard a thousand times, god, probably more, but it has as little meaning as the branch you snapped last week. Conor Oberst. It's what they call you when you're not 'useless waste of space', when you're not 'alcoholic', not 'anorexic'. It's what your parents named you and it could mean less to you.
Yet it's all the people seem to whisper as you pass through the back entrance, it's all people want you to write and it's all people will address you as. Conor Oberst, the singer, the writer, the stupid washed up man with a guitar and a trembling voice. The kids in school said 'you'd never make it' and you agreed.
You never did.
Make it, that is.
Because it's just standard after standard with you. It's - it's like having a BMI of 17 wasn't enough. How 16.5 wasn't, how 16 wasn't, how 15.5 seems so far ahead and how you know when you reach it, if you reach it, it'll never be enough.
Nothing ever is.
"Conor! Conor!" and the girl is pretty and pale and you force a smile and a lazy drawl and you sign her poster and you wave to her friends and, with your arm around her bony little shoulder you feel gravity crush around you with a flash of a camera and you know tomorrow it'll be somewhere up on the internet.
'Hasn't he put on so much weight?'
'Is that Conor Oberst?'
and there'll be critic after critic and really; they're your best friends. You've been one all your life. The weight critic. The voice critic. The writing critic. The drinking critic. It goes on and on and on and you'd have low self esteem if you weren't the most arrogant person you know. You'd have low self esteem if you didn't think you were so sickeningly unique, so special.
You wish Mum had drowned you in that claw foot bathtub. Wish it hasn't been Padraic. Wish you'd turned blue enough to match your mind, skin pale enough to fade out into the white porcelain. Padraic my prince and even dead, he was better than you. Even now you can't resist his lifeless allure and even dead Mum said his name more times than yours. That meaningless, ordinary name.
The bath in your hotel room has gold handles. You can almost feel them under your hands.