There’s a voice stuck inside the kitchen drain and it’s asking for you.
All you wanted was a small country
for your airplane heart to land in.
A house big enough for all your ghosts to sleep soundly.
A place to put the tremble in you.
You unburied your mistakes and this is what you’re left with.
Dirt in places you can’t reach.
You should have known it would be this way.
That it would hurt the way it always does
when you break yourself like a dream
you can’t mosaic back together.
Baby, I know how bad it is.
You still haven’t figured out a way to forgive yourself for the nights
you treated your body like jailhouse.
So you spend your days
punishing the prisoner inside of you
and waiting for calls from people
who don’t deserve your voice.
So you forget your mother’a kindness
and forget the phone numbers of people who could have loved you.
You can’t help but think
that it was supposed to be
better than this.
That you were supposed to be
be the one made of fire.
Made of something bigger than the hurt.
Baby, everything is still so cold,
and winter doesn’t know how
to tell you that it’s not your fault this time.
I wish I could have been the one to
take it all out of you.
To put the ache into a box and send it away.
But your hands are the only ones
strong enough to carry the hurt.
The only ones strong enough to pull it out until it doesn’t exist anymore.
—Y.Z, lullaby promise (via rustyvoices)
whenever i try and learn something new
- me: It seems that I am not immediately excellent at this
- me: it is because I am a failure
- me: everything I touch dies