Pattern recognition...
If I can't stagger home across the train tracks in 4 inch heels I ain't got no right wearing them.
Get on your knees and sing to me in public, say let's go to Baja and I'll love you, pour water down my throat when I'm dehydrated and hungover, over my head when I'm sunburnt and incoherent, don't make up metaphors and tell me your address. I'll sit at home and bang on my typewriter, burn Jeff Buckley for my dad and write a note that says 'this is the kind of man that will be your son in law one day', give me some soul in this turn around fucking world.
for now I'll sit on my porch and smoke my cigarettes, I'll arm myself with red lipstick and pretend I don't fucking care, I'll wake at dawn and drag my ass to work, I'll open another cheap beer on a Thursday night , I'll always wake up in my own bed and never sleep well if there's someone else in it, I'll want to wash my sheets the next day if there's someone else there, step on sand on my hard wood floors and spend my money on a hangover and wasted nights.
I dreamt last week of tribal labyrinth patterns, and if it doesn't make a lasting impression it's not fucking worth it, broken capellaris healing on my shoulders and hips, fading fast and for a first they aren't mocking me. I doubt I'm the woman you think I am, I can't save your fucking soul because I can't even pin mine down. It's hot in here and I don't want to open my windows, I'll float away and let my mind go to those places in my heart I don't want to visit anymore, the neighbors are making noise and it might keep me up all night like I usually am.
dear father, i believe, but still, I'm always let down.
If I can't stagger home across the train tracks in 4 inch heels I ain't got no right wearing them.
Get on your knees and sing to me in public, say let's go to Baja and I'll love you, pour water down my throat when I'm dehydrated and hungover, over my head when I'm sunburnt and incoherent, don't make up metaphors and tell me your address. I'll sit at home and bang on my typewriter, burn Jeff Buckley for my dad and write a note that says 'this is the kind of man that will be your son in law one day', give me some soul in this turn around fucking world.
for now I'll sit on my porch and smoke my cigarettes, I'll arm myself with red lipstick and pretend I don't fucking care, I'll wake at dawn and drag my ass to work, I'll open another cheap beer on a Thursday night , I'll always wake up in my own bed and never sleep well if there's someone else in it, I'll want to wash my sheets the next day if there's someone else there, step on sand on my hard wood floors and spend my money on a hangover and wasted nights.
I dreamt last week of tribal labyrinth patterns, and if it doesn't make a lasting impression it's not fucking worth it, broken capellaris healing on my shoulders and hips, fading fast and for a first they aren't mocking me. I doubt I'm the woman you think I am, I can't save your fucking soul because I can't even pin mine down. It's hot in here and I don't want to open my windows, I'll float away and let my mind go to those places in my heart I don't want to visit anymore, the neighbors are making noise and it might keep me up all night like I usually am.
dear father, i believe, but still, I'm always let down.
VIEW 25 of 50 COMMENTS
I'd agree, if you can't stagger home across the train tracks in 4 inch heels then you don't have the right be to be wearing them. Good night sweetie.