here's the truth: you want the truth? i'll give it to you, every last bit of it-- everything about me has been embodied in a single band and all their songs, not in a cheeseball fangirl way, in a real way, in something cold and hard and real and scary but thrillingly beautiful. sometimes at night i open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out because i am scared of hurting my family and i know how much it will kill them if i die but i really wouldn't mind dying, so much, i really wouldn't, not because i'm suicidal but because i don't want to grow up i can't grow up, and you think it's irrational, but it isn't. a lot of kids grow up and turn out fine, but me i'm not turning out fine, i'm turning out shittily. years ago i stopped reversed turned myself inside out inside out like a paper boat a paper hat a paper plane flying like a bird over the suburbs. i don't wanna live no more, mama, i'm tired of it. i am happy but i am tired, and i am too old of a kid and too much of a kid to function properly, and i am afraid of hurting me and hurting you and hurting everybody but i wanna let go, quietly, just fall asleep one day and fade away. i don't want you to cry i don't want you to hurt or think it's your fault. i want you to realize that i love you but i'm selfish and i can't breathe right like i wish i could and i can't work right like i wish i could. i don't ever wanna be that man on the track, the one walking backwards so slowly and swinging his arms back and forth a bit and being tired, oh so tired, and so worn out burnt out. listen i just don't want to be tearing into two all the time. i don't wanna be shit no more.
i don't want to talk to anyone, tell anyone. it isn't their shit it's mine and i have to deal with it. they'd say get help, like i'm sick, but i'm not sick i'm just fucking tired. i still love you.
i'm gonna live. i won't ever tell you about me being scared or about me being labeled wrong like reject glass bottles on a shelf and being old and alone. it's okay, i'm gonna live a long time. i won't love anymore like i do now, i think, because anyway who'd love a shitty person like me. and i won't ever have kids of my own because i'd be their false note, their pathetic parent who can't grow up enough to work like i should. but i'll live, just to make mama and dad and siblings and things and friends happy. even if you don't know.
i'll live a long time, mama, promise, because i love you.
it's bruised and weak and strong and all wobbly and dizzy and hot and cool and alive in my body and my lungs hurt and i can't focus well and i know i'm pretty angry in my head and pretty fucked up in my words but i'll live because if i die i will screw up this one tiny part of the world of the suburbs that is connected to the rest.
it's cold and hard and dirty and all weak and dizzy and warm and drowning in my body and my lungs hurt. my throat hurts.
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