It’s easy enough to say: what’s the point?
when I feel nothing in the interim
Between ecstasy and success, when I have ceased to exist outside of perfunctory actions, moving only to stay alive – but when I stop, and I do stop – I die. I sit mindlessly playing with hearts and wasting my own time. Not that it matters.
I don’t care about you beyond what you can do for me
Doubtless when we break, either through your sickness or through mine, you will find another love. She will be kind where I was harsh and soft where I am rough; and where I whipped you, she’ll nurse you back to health. It’ll hurt me and it’ll ruin my heart, but it’s true – she will get you up and running out of love.
Or I could always make myself softer
Stop asking what’s next, who else there is, where I can climb – just be, just be, who can we be –
I want nothing more than to stop carrying this
I want nothing more than to be a person
If you offered me success / or that / I know still what I would say
and, well, you know too
and that’s what tends to scare you
Look after yourself when I burn this house down
when I drown my heart just for anything
when I wear out all the clichés
and she – nameless, nice, soft, sweet
can pick you up, can cure the sickness
that I instilled inside you