Tears Crashing Down
1
Would she hear me if I called her name?
I reach out, but the only response is silence. She knows I've done something; she knows how I betrayed her trust. She knows I fucked up.
Any words I say are just words, and if she hears them, she makes no indication.
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?
I have to find a way to tell her what I've done. Would it help if she knew how much I hated myself for it? Because I do. The guilt of my actions are a stain on me that I can't wash off. I'm dirty, and I can't come clean. I reek of another home, I reek of seedy bars, I reek of all my misdeeds, and I can't seem to wash away the stink.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me.
Tense silence gives way to tears. I would compare her tears to the rain falling down outside, but to do so would be cheap and inaccurate. The rain just falls meaninglessly from the dark grey sky, but each tear that streams down her face holds meaning. The weight of what I'd done, how I'd hurt her, was in each one.
Her conscious calls, the guilty to come home.
So, I confess. I confess everything I've done.
I don't even bother to hope that it will make any difference though. Ultimately, I doubt either of us will change.
The path I walk is in the wrong direction.
Eventually tears give way to screams, and her screaming cuts through me, and I think I might miss the silence. Screams become a fight as I scream back at her, and I know it's wrong, but I still do it.
Finally, fighting becomes the slamming of a door and the throwing of things, and I'm outside.
I know I should go back inside. I should try to put this right.
But I don't. Instead, I head in the direction of the place that got me into this mess in the first place. Nothing ever changes; I'll always go the wrong way.
I can still feel the reverberations of her tears crashing down.
I reach out, but the only response is silence. She knows I've done something; she knows how I betrayed her trust. She knows I fucked up.
Any words I say are just words, and if she hears them, she makes no indication.
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?
I have to find a way to tell her what I've done. Would it help if she knew how much I hated myself for it? Because I do. The guilt of my actions are a stain on me that I can't wash off. I'm dirty, and I can't come clean. I reek of another home, I reek of seedy bars, I reek of all my misdeeds, and I can't seem to wash away the stink.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me.
Tense silence gives way to tears. I would compare her tears to the rain falling down outside, but to do so would be cheap and inaccurate. The rain just falls meaninglessly from the dark grey sky, but each tear that streams down her face holds meaning. The weight of what I'd done, how I'd hurt her, was in each one.
Her conscious calls, the guilty to come home.
So, I confess. I confess everything I've done.
I don't even bother to hope that it will make any difference though. Ultimately, I doubt either of us will change.
The path I walk is in the wrong direction.
Eventually tears give way to screams, and her screaming cuts through me, and I think I might miss the silence. Screams become a fight as I scream back at her, and I know it's wrong, but I still do it.
Finally, fighting becomes the slamming of a door and the throwing of things, and I'm outside.
I know I should go back inside. I should try to put this right.
But I don't. Instead, I head in the direction of the place that got me into this mess in the first place. Nothing ever changes; I'll always go the wrong way.
I can still feel the reverberations of her tears crashing down.
♠ ♠ ♠
For shelbyvengeance! Sorry for this being so late! Writers block and life got majorly in my way! Also, I don't know if this is exactly what you were wanting, but I listened to the song several times and read the lyrics several times for inspiration and this was what my brain came up with.