Which, to be fair, is kind of a mood.
“Stripped”—Depeche Mode
Somehow, I knew you were going to pull this one.It’s calculated.Mechanical.Dangerous in a cold, shirt-half-buttoned way.This is the track you put on when you want her to wonder who you’re sleeping with now—but the joke is, you’re still sleeping alone.Just under better lighting.
“Mama You Been on My Mind”—Bob Dylan
Stop it.This one is a trap.You act like it’s detached, but it’s drenched in wistful almosts.
You want her to think you’ve moved on, but you picked the version that still aches in the silence between verses.
“Pictures of You”—The Cure
This is where I roll my eyes.Not because it’s not valid—it is.Painfully.But because you still don’t know if you’re grieving her or the version of her you made up just to have something to lose.Also, this only works if you’re looking out a rain-streaked window in slow motion.
Your playlist isfifty percent damage control, thirty percent denial, and twenty percent unresolved longing in a trench coat.And somehow it still works.Infuriating.
DeadStrings:First of all, damage control?You think I built that list to soften the blow?
You think “Stripped” is about pretending I’ve moved on?It’s not a signal flare.It’s a warning label.
That song doesn’t say “look what you lost.”It says, “You wouldn’t survive me now, because I’m a dead man walking.”
And don’t even start with that Dylan line.
Yes, it’s wistful.
Yes, it’s quiet.
That’s obviously intentional.Not every punch lands with a scream.Some only leave bruises where no one can see them.
Also, you mocking “Pictures of You” like you haven’t built at least three major life decisions around Tori Amos lyrics is a little rich, don’t you think?
And you know what?Maybe I am grieving a version of her that never existed.That doesn’t make the loss any less real.If anything, it makes it worse.
So, no—My playlist isn’t about denial.It’s about truth.The truth that doesn’t need to raise its voice to ruin you.
But thanks for the dissection.
Truly.I appreciate you handing me my ass.Let me know when you’re ready to hand over your five-part emotional autopsy.
I’ll have my scalpel ready.
StringTheory27:Fine, I’m ready for you to dissect me.
“Where the Wild Roses Grow”—Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue
Beauty doesn’t save you; sometimes the hands holding the flowers are also the ones pushing you under.And because no one believes the soft ones can bleed this much.
“Rid of Me”—PJ Harvey
He’s not ready for the version of me that no longer aches to be adored.This isn’t a song—it’s a warning.I want him to feel it pulsing in the space between us, vibrating with everything I’m no longer willing to say out loud.
“Little Earthquakes”—Tori Amos
This is what it sounded like inside my body after he left.Because some of us don’t scream—we detonate quietly, then sit with the rubble.
“Fast Car”—Tracy Chapman
