Reassemble
"Those that are tore to shreds in the moment that you were in two dimensions
Just two dimensions"
Just two dimensions"
So marred by the things I can never say.
I need my silence to be broken. I need some encouragement that I don't have to banter with vague and ambiguous words that never lets anyone in. I, though it feels like I try, never let anybody in. I should understand, I should've known it'd hurt any which way how.
It is safe to say that I've left parts of my self fragmented in different house, different hands, different hearts. And I can't put it back together because I've lost count and forgot where exactly I'd left all of myself. Or I know, I remember, but of course, I won't tell you, because I won't even tell myself. I just keep thinking that I deserve to have a fork hanging out of my rib cage and a little label reading DONE.
Is it safe to say that I've tried? It's probably safer to say that I am stupendous at pushing and shoving and hanging up the phone and pretending like I really don't have anything to say. When all it is, is that I can open my mouth, but I know it'll just be me and the dial tone in the end. Or maybe just the hush sound of my breath.
What I'd done wrong was disregard the realization that no one has ever really tried before, so what was the exception this time? I am beneath the doubts, swallowed by a wonder when I'll be good enough, and wallowing what I'd really done wrong.
I know,
I waited for time to peek the profile of its self and for me to brace it when I see what I'd been seeking. And I think it's here, and it came as I'd least expect that greatness of being below the heart of someone that I didn't belong to. And it wasn't fair of me. To partially love.
Here we go,
I'm screwing with paragraphs again, to fill in the empty spaces where you left your mark. And I come back to that. Because which blankness I'd take on for the next week to tell me that this is it, it slips and I forget to get it back. There is only one thing of me,
And what is it to be broken when you were once complete?
What is it to be incomplete?
I'm sorry.
I need my silence to be broken. I need some encouragement that I don't have to banter with vague and ambiguous words that never lets anyone in. I, though it feels like I try, never let anybody in. I should understand, I should've known it'd hurt any which way how.
It is safe to say that I've left parts of my self fragmented in different house, different hands, different hearts. And I can't put it back together because I've lost count and forgot where exactly I'd left all of myself. Or I know, I remember, but of course, I won't tell you, because I won't even tell myself. I just keep thinking that I deserve to have a fork hanging out of my rib cage and a little label reading DONE.
Is it safe to say that I've tried? It's probably safer to say that I am stupendous at pushing and shoving and hanging up the phone and pretending like I really don't have anything to say. When all it is, is that I can open my mouth, but I know it'll just be me and the dial tone in the end. Or maybe just the hush sound of my breath.
What I'd done wrong was disregard the realization that no one has ever really tried before, so what was the exception this time? I am beneath the doubts, swallowed by a wonder when I'll be good enough, and wallowing what I'd really done wrong.
I know,
I waited for time to peek the profile of its self and for me to brace it when I see what I'd been seeking. And I think it's here, and it came as I'd least expect that greatness of being below the heart of someone that I didn't belong to. And it wasn't fair of me. To partially love.
Here we go,
I'm screwing with paragraphs again, to fill in the empty spaces where you left your mark. And I come back to that. Because which blankness I'd take on for the next week to tell me that this is it, it slips and I forget to get it back. There is only one thing of me,
And what is it to be broken when you were once complete?
What is it to be incomplete?
I'm sorry.
I'm always sorry...
_
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