In Quantity
a dream we were convinced of
It makes you feel sick so many people can relate.
You're buzzed out on the kitchen floor trying not to hear the ringing of the telephone and you feel so fucking sick knowing there's a boy out there just sitting in his room, like you used to, listening to you. Listening to your timid voice and your fucked up words and thinking 'yes'. There's nails on the inside of your throat and a clawing sensation when you see art work with your life painted over it. That yellow bird. The bathtub. Those flowers...
Fucking sick and your brother would listen every night through the thinthin walls. His fragile fingers when the sun came up made you cry and strike another cord and he'd push forward breakfast; like it's what you needed. Wanted. Your fingers bled on the white plate and you looked up and watched his face crack.
Except you're not sure that ever happened because you look up at your brother now and you can't see him. You're not sure because you wrote it all down before you could forget but it might have been a dream. Words are all you have; though you'd never pass on Jack if it came round and something about the curve on those tablets sent your hunger searching. There's a burn at the back of your throat.
And she was so lovely except when she cried (it could have been the other way round; something about July) and she had the softest skin and the faintest breath and you hitched a ride out of town before she could die in your arms. The girls with the soft skin always do that. You drew a deer on your skin to remember her, the pen was red, you think.
"Conor. Conor. I know you're listening."
Heavy breathing, heavy breathes and it's so much harder to ignore that sound. It's been following you around everyday of your life and you can't cut it out; even a butchers knife couldn't do it.
"...Conor I need you to call me back. Pick up the phone. Do something. I need to know you're not just lying there, Conor."
"Conor Oberst."
there's that name again.
You're buzzed out on the kitchen floor trying not to hear the ringing of the telephone and you feel so fucking sick knowing there's a boy out there just sitting in his room, like you used to, listening to you. Listening to your timid voice and your fucked up words and thinking 'yes'. There's nails on the inside of your throat and a clawing sensation when you see art work with your life painted over it. That yellow bird. The bathtub. Those flowers...
Fucking sick and your brother would listen every night through the thinthin walls. His fragile fingers when the sun came up made you cry and strike another cord and he'd push forward breakfast; like it's what you needed. Wanted. Your fingers bled on the white plate and you looked up and watched his face crack.
Except you're not sure that ever happened because you look up at your brother now and you can't see him. You're not sure because you wrote it all down before you could forget but it might have been a dream. Words are all you have; though you'd never pass on Jack if it came round and something about the curve on those tablets sent your hunger searching. There's a burn at the back of your throat.
And she was so lovely except when she cried (it could have been the other way round; something about July) and she had the softest skin and the faintest breath and you hitched a ride out of town before she could die in your arms. The girls with the soft skin always do that. You drew a deer on your skin to remember her, the pen was red, you think.
"Conor. Conor. I know you're listening."
Heavy breathing, heavy breathes and it's so much harder to ignore that sound. It's been following you around everyday of your life and you can't cut it out; even a butchers knife couldn't do it.
"...Conor I need you to call me back. Pick up the phone. Do something. I need to know you're not just lying there, Conor."
"Conor Oberst."
there's that name again.