Sometimes I wonder.
(Songs come on the radio which make me think of you and all your permutations)
Springsteen has been ruined for me. I Don't Believe You made me think of all the times you want me to be patient, because you want to be my friend. But I never see any evidence. (I try to talk to you, send you emails, leave rocks at your door, etc. I try. You don't. You just don't want to be the bad guy)
And then, Love Took Me Down to the River To Silence Me
Because when you get mad, it seems you get VERY mad. ("Stop this shit. It pisses me off") Not like your polite self.
Of course, I don't know who is your polite self. And the who/you who is your real self. And all of the variations in between.
When you hadn't introduced me to R, I was convinced that she was lying dead in your freezer. None of your stories contained her, either. Maybe she was a made up character, entirely.
And what does it say about my personality that I still keep the faith in your smile? That despite all of this evidence and likelihood, that I would still gladly be your (in-person) friend.
Am I the person in those horror movies that becomes the victim? I think I can take the gun away. I think I can get to the smile behind the frown, that I am different enough somehow to you? (But I don't know WHICH you is there at any time) In a confrontation, would it be like Bjork in "Dancer in the Dark"? Mercy.
(Shhh. I wonder about the stuff you can't tell me. Involving you being alone with a girl in the past. Whatever you think is too terrible to tell me, I'm sure it's not as bad as what I imagine.)
You've told me so much so far, I don't understand why you shift back into your solitude mode. As if you forget.
Yesterday, I heard David Sedaris talk about how every generation believe they have invented sex. Now I think that every person reinvents Mental Illness. It isn't enough to read secondhand accounts. You have to experience it for yourself.
(Songs come on the radio which make me think of you and all your permutations)
Springsteen has been ruined for me. I Don't Believe You made me think of all the times you want me to be patient, because you want to be my friend. But I never see any evidence. (I try to talk to you, send you emails, leave rocks at your door, etc. I try. You don't. You just don't want to be the bad guy)
And then, Love Took Me Down to the River To Silence Me
Because when you get mad, it seems you get VERY mad. ("Stop this shit. It pisses me off") Not like your polite self.
Of course, I don't know who is your polite self. And the who/you who is your real self. And all of the variations in between.
When you hadn't introduced me to R, I was convinced that she was lying dead in your freezer. None of your stories contained her, either. Maybe she was a made up character, entirely.
And what does it say about my personality that I still keep the faith in your smile? That despite all of this evidence and likelihood, that I would still gladly be your (in-person) friend.
Am I the person in those horror movies that becomes the victim? I think I can take the gun away. I think I can get to the smile behind the frown, that I am different enough somehow to you? (But I don't know WHICH you is there at any time) In a confrontation, would it be like Bjork in "Dancer in the Dark"? Mercy.
(Shhh. I wonder about the stuff you can't tell me. Involving you being alone with a girl in the past. Whatever you think is too terrible to tell me, I'm sure it's not as bad as what I imagine.)
You've told me so much so far, I don't understand why you shift back into your solitude mode. As if you forget.
Yesterday, I heard David Sedaris talk about how every generation believe they have invented sex. Now I think that every person reinvents Mental Illness. It isn't enough to read secondhand accounts. You have to experience it for yourself.
No comments:
Post a Comment