âa place where no one has diedâ
âso, itâs just me and this tap water all full of lead
and we circle the drain âtil i go back to bedâ
â LA tap water is gross and so am i
âitâs just you in the morning, youâre all that i want
and youâre so far away, i hope the bombs donât go offâ
â homesickness, a feeling of an impending doom/violent end
âand this world is bad theater, the 3rd act is on
and itâs falling apart âtil the curtain draws
thereâs a light i canât see but it shines on the stage
and iâm sewn to my seat like iâm part of the playâ
â itâs all falling apart and i am powerless to stop it. there is an illusion i cannot quite see through. maybe this illusion is life itself.
âis it true? what you told me an autumn ago
empty words in the darkness from mouths full of smokeâ
â not even the ones you love are outside the illusion
âitâs just me and this medicine no one prescribed
it gets caught in my throat and i choke and i cryâ
â neither are the drugs. numbing yourself stops working eventually.
âitâs just you in the mirror always judging me
take my eyes and my tongue, i forgot how to speakâ
â self-hatred, self-denial, trying to not give up
âitâs okay, give it time, itâll all be alright
thereâs a girl in the shower, sheâs singing and alive
thereâs a dog in the graveyard so patient and sad
thereâs this place we can go where it wonât be so badâ
â reveling in the ecstasy of a life drenched in grief, the girl singing in my shower is a recurring hallucination, and idk if itâs me or the dog thatâs in the graveyard waiting
âthereâs fresh air and clean clothes and silence you can stand
your grandmotherâs in the kitchen with flour on her handsâ
â the most beautiful place i can imagine
âand police donât exist there, you wonât have to hide
and police donât exist there, and no one has diedâ
â acab and also âsong for a chicken named jennyâ by pat the bunny means a lot to me and thereâs a line where he says âhere in your arms my darling police donât existâ
âand we never tried the hard stuff and no one has died
and our bodies worked perfect and no one has died
and nobody owns nothing and no one has died
and no one has died and no one has diedâ
â wouldâve couldâve shouldâve-ing my way into heaven
âitâs just me in this bedroom rewriting cliches
cutting open my sickness every fucking day
and it all tastes like ashes and blood in my throat
thereâs a man with a gun in my childhood homeâ
â retreating into solitude trying to make sense of it, the violent machinery of my mind and the loneliness of this life. then being robbed of even the safety that should exist in your own mind or in your childhood bedroom.
âand youâre tied to the radiator, burns on your wrist
nothing bad happens here since my mother got sickâ
â the death of innocence. the marks left by cruelty.
âand the walls are asbestos and no one has died
and the waterâs still poison but no one has died
and the kids all have cancer but no one has died
and my bodyâs a target but no one has diedâ
â old houses i grew up in, LA tap water + dirty water in my hometown after Hurricane Helene, cancer being everywhere in my life and my family, existing as a trans person in america but particularly in the south
âand no one has diedâ x12
â obviously we have all died. everyone i loved. everyone. this is a prayer. a desperate and ultimately futile prayer.