a year ago she could pick herself apart and destroy herself,
no problem,
and now all she's got is
a lie and a dusty box in the back of your closet.
leaves are tumbling down, down, down, across the river, and did you hear?
she can walk on water.
she hung the moon
and
the stars,
and still had the time that night to sleep.
did you hear?
well, she's YOUR daughter.
empty slaughter with a cherry on top that looks like an excuse.
see, she pulls off her kneecaps sometimes and digs down inside her legs so she can find the secrets she hid there.
check the news--check the weather--check yourself.
stop lying
start putting those talents of yours to use.
she's a high-class whore
and she doesn't want to grow up,
no sir.
she stole your death,
snapped out her tendons,
and pulled out her ribs to feel something real,
without experiencing any consequences.
the aching in your ankles is an empty allusion to an
older
pain.
take my reason,
make it treason.
(but you know you'll leave some
for the ones who want it.
wasn't it always that way?)
she only caters to what she wants;
she's not used to being alone.
she'll erase the words that you wrote first
and paint them across the walls she hates.
she only wants what she can't have.
she left you breathless once she found a way to steal it back.
she hates shoes.
she hates rain.
she hates herself.
she'll go out in style.