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You Play Forgiveness, Watch It Now, Here He Comes.
I wake up from another nightmare to see the clock glowing four o'clock. I don't want the shadows to get me while I'm awake so I huddle beneath the blankets. Trying to absorb any strand of warmth. Trying to think of something nice. Trying not to think of them. It doesn't matter though because the mirror still shines in the dark. The ache of my bones sends me into another fitful round of dreams but at least I'm sleeping.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
The mirror can't be avoided in the morning. I hear their voices in my head, circling round and round and round. Take advantage of every mirror. I splash the cold water on my face, erasing the tears from my sleep but not the dark circles under my eyes. That's what the makeup is for. Apply, smile, evaluate. You'll never know when you'll get another chance. Bangs parted to the left, skirt at mid thigh, and heels slipped on. One last glance at the mirror shoots a dull pain through my veins, like an anti-steroid. You'll never know who will kick you down today.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
A swipe of lip gloss because there's going to be boys to face. Locker is open, books are grabbed, and then they're standing there, talking about yesterday. Remember that guy at the register who checked you out? Of course she remembers, it was only yesterday. Yeah, that was great. Then it clicks. Yesterday, the day I spent alone. I slam the locker shut and face their secretive smiles. Why wasn't I invited? They toss their hair and purse their lips, trying to look surprised and defiant at the same time. Oh, it wasn't your group of friends. But you're supposed to be my best friends.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
They play stupid and copy. They flirt and purr at their reflections. They remain inpenetrable. At lunch they complain about their weight. 90. 100. 110. 120. Pounds they gain and lose as quickly as boyfriends. I look down at my half eaten sandwich and stuff it into my paper sack, knowing that it won't go down. That's when I wonder how many of them do it. How many of them run to the bathroom behind closed doors. How many of them turn around and make fun of others for the very same thing. So do you cut or throw up? Do you think skipping meals will make you prettier? Do you think being a slut will make you happier? They're vile words even if they only remain in my thoughts. It still makes me want to scream.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
He grabs my hand and kisses my cheek. He doesn't notice I got up a half hour earlier to straighten my hair. He doesn't care but he pretends he does. I pretend to believe him when he says he loves me. Maybe he does, maybe I do, maybe we both don't. I dance in his arms to a trashy song. I let him kiss me even when it isn't dark. I regret it all but it's not something that can be stopped. It's an addiction. You have to suffer the consequences. They say these things with malice ringing in their voices. I know it isn't fun anymore when the jokes begin to hurt. They laugh and laugh and laugh. Don't make such a big deal. Right, because this isn't anything.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
It's all a spiderweb of secrets. She won't say who the guy is, and she won't say what's wrong, and she lies about what she did, and I tell them everything. Their eyes are blind, their ears deaf, and their hearts empty of anyone except for themselves. And whoever will tell them they're beautiful. And whoever will write them a love song. And whoever will give them awkward kisses. You're so weird. I shrug and roll my eyes. I wonder since when being an individual has been bad but then I look at them and remember. It's a thousand times better than being a slut. Their eyes widen. How horrible the truth can be. I look at their claws and began to cower. I'm only joking around. Of course, they already knew that.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
Dresses, parties, drunken phone calls. Fast cars, broken hearts again, heated nights. Scraps of paper, torn photos, violent threats. Hushed murmurs, friendship bracelets, social suicide. Magazines no longer suffice for gossip, daydreams stop working, and slumber parties are forgotten. I don't know them anymore. I don't know him. I don't know myself. I can't believe I liked him.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
And you try and tell yourself it doesn't matter but it does. These are days that can never be replaced. With every step, every thought, every nighmare it settles deeper inside you. It learns how to haunt you and snatch you from any false sense of security. It lures you into a world you can't resist. It pulls you down. It makes you wait for something. It makes you wait for another time, another place, another face. It tells you that everything matters.
Contagious.
I wake up from another nightmare to see the clock glowing three o'clock. I don't want the shadows to find me while I'm awake so I turn on the lamp. The mirror is still there. In this half-dream state it shows me something more. I see the faded face. I close my eyes. It's still there, imprinted on my eyelids. And the ache of my bones sends me into another fitful round of dreams but at least I'm sleeping. At least there's another world, if only for a little while, where we can be young again.
Title taken from "When You Were Young" by The Killers.
Er sorry, this is really rough. But isn't the truth always?
I wake up from another nightmare to see the clock glowing four o'clock. I don't want the shadows to get me while I'm awake so I huddle beneath the blankets. Trying to absorb any strand of warmth. Trying to think of something nice. Trying not to think of them. It doesn't matter though because the mirror still shines in the dark. The ache of my bones sends me into another fitful round of dreams but at least I'm sleeping.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
The mirror can't be avoided in the morning. I hear their voices in my head, circling round and round and round. Take advantage of every mirror. I splash the cold water on my face, erasing the tears from my sleep but not the dark circles under my eyes. That's what the makeup is for. Apply, smile, evaluate. You'll never know when you'll get another chance. Bangs parted to the left, skirt at mid thigh, and heels slipped on. One last glance at the mirror shoots a dull pain through my veins, like an anti-steroid. You'll never know who will kick you down today.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
A swipe of lip gloss because there's going to be boys to face. Locker is open, books are grabbed, and then they're standing there, talking about yesterday. Remember that guy at the register who checked you out? Of course she remembers, it was only yesterday. Yeah, that was great. Then it clicks. Yesterday, the day I spent alone. I slam the locker shut and face their secretive smiles. Why wasn't I invited? They toss their hair and purse their lips, trying to look surprised and defiant at the same time. Oh, it wasn't your group of friends. But you're supposed to be my best friends.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
They play stupid and copy. They flirt and purr at their reflections. They remain inpenetrable. At lunch they complain about their weight. 90. 100. 110. 120. Pounds they gain and lose as quickly as boyfriends. I look down at my half eaten sandwich and stuff it into my paper sack, knowing that it won't go down. That's when I wonder how many of them do it. How many of them run to the bathroom behind closed doors. How many of them turn around and make fun of others for the very same thing. So do you cut or throw up? Do you think skipping meals will make you prettier? Do you think being a slut will make you happier? They're vile words even if they only remain in my thoughts. It still makes me want to scream.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
He grabs my hand and kisses my cheek. He doesn't notice I got up a half hour earlier to straighten my hair. He doesn't care but he pretends he does. I pretend to believe him when he says he loves me. Maybe he does, maybe I do, maybe we both don't. I dance in his arms to a trashy song. I let him kiss me even when it isn't dark. I regret it all but it's not something that can be stopped. It's an addiction. You have to suffer the consequences. They say these things with malice ringing in their voices. I know it isn't fun anymore when the jokes begin to hurt. They laugh and laugh and laugh. Don't make such a big deal. Right, because this isn't anything.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
It's all a spiderweb of secrets. She won't say who the guy is, and she won't say what's wrong, and she lies about what she did, and I tell them everything. Their eyes are blind, their ears deaf, and their hearts empty of anyone except for themselves. And whoever will tell them they're beautiful. And whoever will write them a love song. And whoever will give them awkward kisses. You're so weird. I shrug and roll my eyes. I wonder since when being an individual has been bad but then I look at them and remember. It's a thousand times better than being a slut. Their eyes widen. How horrible the truth can be. I look at their claws and began to cower. I'm only joking around. Of course, they already knew that.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
Dresses, parties, drunken phone calls. Fast cars, broken hearts again, heated nights. Scraps of paper, torn photos, violent threats. Hushed murmurs, friendship bracelets, social suicide. Magazines no longer suffice for gossip, daydreams stop working, and slumber parties are forgotten. I don't know them anymore. I don't know him. I don't know myself. I can't believe I liked him.
Flashing,
Falling,
Flailing,
Fleeing.
And you try and tell yourself it doesn't matter but it does. These are days that can never be replaced. With every step, every thought, every nighmare it settles deeper inside you. It learns how to haunt you and snatch you from any false sense of security. It lures you into a world you can't resist. It pulls you down. It makes you wait for something. It makes you wait for another time, another place, another face. It tells you that everything matters.
Contagious.
I wake up from another nightmare to see the clock glowing three o'clock. I don't want the shadows to find me while I'm awake so I turn on the lamp. The mirror is still there. In this half-dream state it shows me something more. I see the faded face. I close my eyes. It's still there, imprinted on my eyelids. And the ache of my bones sends me into another fitful round of dreams but at least I'm sleeping. At least there's another world, if only for a little while, where we can be young again.
Title taken from "When You Were Young" by The Killers.
Er sorry, this is really rough. But isn't the truth always?
