Story Behind the Song
if you're noticing a lot of repition and not the best rhythm ever... that's because i wanted to transform this poem into a song without changing any (or at least precious little) of the original diction. it's what i would call "psychologically gross" in some respects, but at the same time, who hasn't wanted to be somebody else at times? and who hasn't wished for someone to come rescue them?
Lyrics
he looked at me and asked me what i was feeling -- / what i was feeling -- / “i’m feeling you.” / and he looked right through me -- studied the texture of the wall beyond my eyes and asked carefully, / “does it hurt?” // i told him what he wanted to hear – licked his wounds -- / his wounds -- / tasted the pus and let it run down the back of my throat / he locked his eyes and called me too much of an actress / honey, i’m too much of everything i am // the material girls are counting their diamonds / and i’m counting down hours / hours until sunrise -- sunrise -- / when they don their fingers -- / when i sit on mine -- / bite my lip -- / when a rusty chirping glorifies the death of night, / and a fresh bouquet of black carnations bleeds onto my empty sheets; / when i tuck away my insecurities, / paint over any vulnerability with a blushing new face -- / bright and smiling at the sun // he said, “you are what you pretend to be.” / i said, “i like what i pretend to be.” / the tears of the material girls taste like salt -- / like salt -- / not blood / he shook his head -- / his head -- / said i’d never weep with salt until i learned to dance with the skeletons in my closet // but that closet is pandora’s box, / and the skeletons are all lined up behind a thousand gays -- / all afraid of the material girls’ fingers / perhaps i don’t like what i pretend to be, / but would defeat be any easier? // it would be fragrant -- / fragrant -- / and it would taste like chicken / i would dance with those skeletons over factories and shopping malls, / over corporate headquarters and trailer parks, / high over the head of every material girl walking down the aisle to another sunrise // or then would i too have to hide from their fingers? / and what would i do as the last skeleton stepped out onto the dance floor? / that last tiny girl with a pink dress and ribbons in her hair / that girl who had dreams and prayers and fear and love -- / love -- / that girl that i killed / with all my rationalizations / and fear of passion -- / with my desire for a painted face to smile at the sun / and fingers donned in diamonds to point at the snakes that crawl out from under that closet door / that little girl that i killed by piling a thousand burdens on her shoulders -- / her shoulders -- / her tiny little shoulders -- / and when she buckled from the weight, / i pushed her broken bones -- / broken bones -- / broken heart -- / far into the darkest corner of my closet. // he said, “what are you afraid of?” / i said, “i’m not afraid.” / but i’m afraid / afraid of that little girl and all the fears she carried with her -- / afraid they’ll resurrect with her, / and i will be her once again -- / that tattered corpse / collecting dust -- / dust -- / behind the bad decisions, the pain, the mistakes, the sorrow / and the gays / in the closet. // i washed my hands; / said “why wallow in the past?” / he said, “you left your heart back there.” / i dried them on his shirt / my heart / my heart that never had a chance to heal before it was wounded again / my heart that used to chase after happiness -- / happiness -- / and guided me through a thousand leaps of faith so i could hit the ground like thunder / i said “what would i want with my heart?” / and he shouted “i want it!” // but then the sun rose // and he vanished along with every other delusion of reality, / and i painted on a smiling face as the material girls donned their fingers, / and i hurried to join them // he would’ve said something then -- / would’ve pulled me back to myself / and i would’ve listened but pretended not to hear; / but he gave on me far too quickly -- / left me talking to myself in the night and fooling myself in the day / he didn’t see through me the way that he should’ve, because i never licked his wounds / he said, “i like talking to you,” / then he stopped talking to me / and the build-up of paint on my face grows thicker // i know that i am what i pretend to be / and i don’t like what i pretend to be / but i hear a whimper from the closet and it frightens me -- / frightens me -- / i sit on my fingers -- / bite my lip -- / and count down the hours until sunset.
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