And I can’t admit that to Celie.
Once she hears the words,
finds out how much I care,
I can’t take them back.
My feelings become a stain.
Permanent. Unrippable.
Living in stories she’ll throw back at me one day.
‘Remember the time…’
‘Six-Point-Five, the one that got away.’
‘…The only guy you ever said yes to.’
‘Yo, there’s hope for you after all.’
And then universe?—
with its sick memory?—
will keep playing it back.
Over and over.
And I’d be left here.
Alone with it.
17 /SAIL - FEED ME REMIX
AWOLNATION, FEED ME
// NOV 11, 5:47 PM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
There’s a fine line between genius and madness.
It feels like I’m walking this line barefoot
with a splinter nailed deep between my toes.
I’m cross-legged on the floor of my writing room,
drowning in insanity.
Paper is scattered across the rug?—
some balled up with regret,
some torn 'cause they pissed me off,
some waiting for their fate to be decided.
Pens and highlighters are scattered like pills.
