we were raised by our mothers
and we like acting like them, yet they would surely disapprove.
we prefer red wine though we know it makes us a little tired and likely to retire
we don't think cocaine is cool, and don't need five boys that stare to make us feel there.
embarrassingly comfortable people
though we will gladly stay up beyond sunrise, but only if the company is stimulating beyond their looks and will actually engage in conversation. or if there is a possibility of endless dancing with space to move arms. the reason will never be that i am waiting for someone.
i am mad at you for thinking i am a bore because of a steady relationship, and for focusing so much on others that you are forgetting about yourself, and yourself is only becoming the ever strong image you wish to portray (unfortunately it only works on people less sure of themselves than you)
i am mad at the culture for only allowing me to see my friends drunk and in the dark.
somewhere in this darkness they transformed and i lost my ability to see clearly what they are, but am learning that i am someone with less tolerance than i thought- though not for substances.
-
i know there is a limit to your love that i am pushingat least i find my own mistakes first
i never want to see your fist because of my thirst
my bendable will, my mistakable thrill
your unmistakable will is being abused,
but not because i use, i used, i dont want to use,
but am used, and am used to being used
give consent when i want to utter untrue contempt.
why my heartbeat rhymes with the wrong words
when my reasons are drugged to unconsciousness,
the unreasonable happens, i push the limit,
the line is persuaded to move an inch
and i am waiting, without any want, for the last push
off the seat of comfort created over months and carefully kept next to yours
because i wont jump, i am clinging to what i think my soberself seeks.
