fault
What is there left to talk about?
I gave you all my stories when I could,
Put them in small bottles, easy to swallow,
And you never drank a single drop -
The ink dried up, inside those little bottles,
And when I open them,
All that escapes is
A foul stench -
I threw all of them out, out of the window,
Heard them shatter twenty feet below and wondered
About a lot of things.
But I kept quiet.
Twenty small bottles, stained glass and
They all shattered, twenty feet below,
Like small bells in the wind - and I wondered,
Would you have tried to stop me?
Probably not.
It's raining now. It smells like my ink and
Is this all I'm good for?
Like small bells in the wind, all you will hear is
A small chime - and a twinkling, shimmering -
Is this all I amount to? (No, I'm not sad.)
Fuck you for hurting me. Thank you for hurting me.
I should have listened to her! You should have
Listened to me (for once)! It doesn't matter.
The dark sky is pretty, a tragic sort of kind,
Where it doesn't really matter who you are -
All the things you've been through, are going through,
It doesn't matter - because it isn't you -
All those little bottles, littering my bedroom floor -
You never drank a single drop, you just left,
Not saying a word, not touching a thing, you
Just left me sobbing, in the little green room,
And you didn't really care - so it's alright,
You'll forget about me soon, very soon,
With old fires burning the frays of who I am to you -
Ancient burning, an everlasting kind,
Eating holes into your mind -
The spot, where I was -
And you will regret - you will.
What is there left to talk about?
It' s your fault that you are all alone.
