sunday on a saturday afternoon  
fills my lungs with soda taste longing  
flinging through words never said  
to spit out of my head  
here i lie on the bedding

sunday comes around  
to feed me to the ground  
silence waits til i turn to say ‘i found you’

saturday sun on a sweet afternoon  
week full, ate up my work til i threw up on you    
what was that last thing we spoke about?

like,  
just wait til it ends  
just wait til it ends  
sun sat day to wait til it ends

and then you know like  
it starts on a friday night  
we’ll tie our hands together  
over our new tv  
we’ll watch the stories as they play

of a life worth living past sunday  
life worth living past sunday

Take me at my word,
Or don't.
To me, it's nearly the same.
But don't expect
Should you neglect
To accept me being forthright,
That the same expression
Should cross my face.
You mistook honesty for lie,
Biography for farce,
Stand-up not discussion-
It is yet tragedy but comedy.

It is a fair assumption
To believe that truth is habitually withheld,
In the daily routine of "inconsequential,
Miniscule" white lies.
As in larger defeats
Where the sting of humility or embarrassment linger,
In plans gone awry.
To understand this is not to condone this,
But never to engage in it.
To do so any different
Would only prove otherwise.

He said it was your fault
the way you smiled too often at strangers,
the way your dress clung to your skin,
the way you spoke your mind
like it wasn’t meant to be silenced.


He said you were too much,
too loud, too free,
too wild to be loved by someone like him.
So he let his hands wander elsewhere
and called it your mistake.


He blamed you for the nights he disappeared,
for the silence he left in his wake,
for the guilt that crept into his voice
when you asked where he’d been.
He told you it was your laugh
too careless, too inviting,
like you wanted to be replaced.



But it wasn’t you
who forgot what love was made of.
It wasn’t you
who kissed someone else
and washed the taste down with excuses.



He blamed you because it was easier
than admitting he was small.
He blamed you because your strength
was the mirror to his weakness.



It wasn’t the dress,
it wasn’t the smile,
it wasn’t your beauty that broke him.
It was him
his hollow heart, his cowardice,
his inability to hold something real.


And you still sit in the ruins,
asking yourself what you could’ve done.
But the answer was never yours to give.
He was broken before he touched you,
and nothing you did could’ve changed that.


So let him carry the weight of his lies,
let him drown in the shame he tried to hand you.
You are not the cracks in his ******>ry.
You are the foundation he never deserved.

She told me to believe in forever,
but even the evergreens have lied to me.

Scratches on his skin:

she attacked me like crazy --


the ****** declares.