Grains of Sand
Looking back, I’ve been quite the powder keg – waiting for any little spark to set me off so that I can be there to see everything that I love burn in my wake. So silly, puppet. You think you’ve got me pretty much figured out. Toss away your coins and let us play our old games to see just how well you know me. People like you need people like me so you can smile and say, “Hey, I could be worse off. I could be as fucked as you.”
Beg your pardon, please. Sit down a little to listen to the babble of a man who refuses to accept the change. I’ll spare you the dollars.
The old rockers sway in the wind. The pebbles in our boots have all been shook out. You shook me out, dear one. And you’re the reason I promised not to love another. We’ve been in far too deep to know when to back down. Is that the match in your hand. I’m too old for these games, dear one. I’ll let you make the first move. I’ll give you the check mate. I’ll give you the queen on the pedestal, knees broken at your feet. Let me grovel for remorse. Redemption. Manipulation. Erase the histories and rewrite your own.
It’s always been that way with you, hasn’t it, dear? Your talk has out grown my fiddle and your secrets have filled up my grave. You and I dug these holes and you expect me to crawl in and occupy them all. Well, fuck you and fuck your ways, dear girl. Dear little sister, porcelain lain in blue. Laid in green. So pristine, ain’t you?
People like you need people like me in order to feel secure about your life. To understand your next move. To manipulate. To play your games. To shelter your fears. To hide your secrets in the void of ocean that is our hearts. That is our minds. That make up our souls.
I’m a powder keg, waiting for you, babe, to burst through the stained glass windows and watch the religion of your heart peel away the indifference, the confusion. So take that match in your withered hand and light this fuse. We’re both too old to play this game, so please make the first move. Know that I’ve done my best for you, all the while I’ve been your personal pin cushion.
I’m sorry for this. I truly am, dear little lover. Ballerina. Dancer. Porcelain faced gleam.