I Can't Act Blanche
Despair makes me see coincidences. The phone woke me for the second time this morning, and you and I know you did this before. I left my iPod on "Don't Look Back In Anger", and now the song I want is "Don't Speak". It's raining. I just hate how you don't realize that this is what I was most afraid of.
Last night I drew the fangirl Pete Doherty injected heroin into as she lay unconscious on his floor. In my sketch, six strings stretch from her joints, cross a fret, and sail off the top of the page. The caption says, "i'm afraid even paper dolls and marionettes are loyal." It hurts me now to admit I love you still. It hurts me to admit that I wish I were that girl, that not-so-innocent creature on her idol's kitchen tile.
My friend told me you were on heroin. She was exaggerating. Worse, worse, it's worse. You don't know I know. I need you to, but I can't tell you. What could I say? "You shouldn't boast to people who actually do care about me." "You should have known better than to have introduced me to her." "The first time, I believed you were sorry." "Here's your Sufjan Stevens back." "What the hell were you thinking?"
I'm not afraid I'm going crazy - I'm afraid I've been crazy all along. Look at the psychos I've fallen for. They way they've sucked me in, convinced me they're all the earth. The way the Ex-Guyfriend dropped me hard again and again. You're not planning to conquer Africa, but are you just subtler than that?
Either way, just thinking about you today, you've won me back. I won't steal your CDs. I'll put your socks in with my laundry. I won't tell anyone how bitterly we fought about spontaneity or how sincere you sounded when you said I was the most adorable thing in the world.
Or maybe I will. Maybe I'll call up that girl you kissed last week, the girl who agreed it could go no farther. Maybe I'll put on my rhinestone tiara and sit up all night. After all, I'm crazy.
Last night I drew the fangirl Pete Doherty injected heroin into as she lay unconscious on his floor. In my sketch, six strings stretch from her joints, cross a fret, and sail off the top of the page. The caption says, "i'm afraid even paper dolls and marionettes are loyal." It hurts me now to admit I love you still. It hurts me to admit that I wish I were that girl, that not-so-innocent creature on her idol's kitchen tile.
My friend told me you were on heroin. She was exaggerating. Worse, worse, it's worse. You don't know I know. I need you to, but I can't tell you. What could I say? "You shouldn't boast to people who actually do care about me." "You should have known better than to have introduced me to her." "The first time, I believed you were sorry." "Here's your Sufjan Stevens back." "What the hell were you thinking?"
I'm not afraid I'm going crazy - I'm afraid I've been crazy all along. Look at the psychos I've fallen for. They way they've sucked me in, convinced me they're all the earth. The way the Ex-Guyfriend dropped me hard again and again. You're not planning to conquer Africa, but are you just subtler than that?
Either way, just thinking about you today, you've won me back. I won't steal your CDs. I'll put your socks in with my laundry. I won't tell anyone how bitterly we fought about spontaneity or how sincere you sounded when you said I was the most adorable thing in the world.
Or maybe I will. Maybe I'll call up that girl you kissed last week, the girl who agreed it could go no farther. Maybe I'll put on my rhinestone tiara and sit up all night. After all, I'm crazy.
I dreamed I was dying, as I so often do
And when I awoke, I was sure it was true
I went to the window, threw my head to the sky,
And said, "Whoever is up there, please don't let me die."
- Stars, "Calendar Girl"
posted by Anna at 12:49 PM
3 Comments:
I'm so sorry, Anna. I hope this all turns out for the better.
Finished my first shot at prettyfying it. Get online as soon as you can.
don't ever say prettyfying again spencer.
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