the same song playing circles in your head.
drowning drips of distorted chords and off-the-road keys. dragging feet in the dirt to some distant restraint.
but i can’t complain. i’ve never waged a war or climbed the hill with the ghosts of myself. i was just a coward hiding in the known. the fictional mother. made up relief. pretending his punches were the reasons. blowing kisses to no one there. guaranteed defeat.
but i don’t belong here, now.
so then where do i go?
how does one leap down when the past holds you out?
for now, i’m just loops of wilted notes melting sad. hanging on with fingertips and aches in every step. out of tune, fasting. crying with ever low breath. rims with low tears. no shelter with chromatic fears. slow and deliberate.
i do know one thing, though…
i have to quit blaming my mother.