A million things that I mustn't forget
And I mustn't touch, mustn't feel
Suddenly a million is a tower fallen;
A list lost; a name changed
"Run, child, run" the winds whisper as they pin me down
And I run, far, further than ever before,
Then spin around to find myself the same as ever
No crowds cheer as I cross the finishing line,
Into nothingness,
No mother cries as I fall: for she is blinded
And I think I sharpened the spear that befell Polyphemus
For my hands are covered in blood, and I myself bleed only sadness
My cigarettes smell of the city, and bitter tastes sweet
In my dreams I flee across low, dark landscapes,
And wake exhausted - someone strokes my forehead and
I pretend to know their name
They feed me dusty strawberries, and I abandon
My plots to choose between dark and dust -
Which is real? Wire faces are presented to me and I fill in the gaps
Such beautiful colours. A man told me that they'd never fade
Then fell to the ground as lavender perfume,
They say it'll help me sleep, but how can I sleep when I never woke?
A child stuck a pin in the centre of my world, and twists the years round
And round, sometimes she guides my hand to help, I pretend
She's me, and give her my meals so she needn't steal hearts
Or get her fingers bitten by the monster in our head
I built my world out of numbers so it'd never change,
And now I'm stuck with decisions I never made
I was going to be an artist before the angel came
And told me I was to bear his child, Loneliness as black as the heart of a tulip,
I gave them my body and Gravity tore me away,
Buried me deep in the sharp lines of every mirror
Gave me my rue to count and cultivate
And feed the children of unknown women -
I am the bitter taste in your mouth,
That reminds you of an unhappy home, a bully's tear
Battle-worn and hungry; I don't want to be here
I walk the roads of my childhood and
Pretend not to remember the way to the pharmacist and
Grow pale - children see a living snowman, mothers touch my cheek
Their fingers melt me faster. Dripping, I decide one cannot drip in dreams,
And stop dead in tracks the postman left,
I sit on a memorial bench - with a memory that's cleaner than
My heart will ever be - and only the ground beneath understands me
I want no benches, no dedications, no toasts. I am not religious,
The Holy Man does not smile when I offer him all I have
An Intellectual, he does not like people. He lives so close to God
That I must seem painfully mortal
The cuts on my hands are for you, my love
The scars on my legs are for whomever you will love
The thoughts in my head are of love, for love, quite without love
The words on the page are mine to give away
But each is embroidered on my tongue, so not without difficulty.
The man who drew me, drew me slowly
With hands gnarled and shaking - I paid him more than we agreed
Because he managed to draw me while barely looking at me
And I was pleased. It wasn't until I framed it that I realised,
And wished all beauty to be destroyed
Oh my darling, I understand now, and so hit the wall time and time again
And I bleed more sadness than ever before,
Wary that when all my sadness is lost I am left as nothing
Too young to die, too young to live, and stuck in dreams
I wondered if naming the rose did change the smell
And why I am scared, still.
