I want to brush my hair some more
But I'm scared it might fall out
I want to paint my face again
But I'm scared that they might shout
I dream of being pretty more than I do of thriving
And dream of being remembered more than I do surviving
I cross and cross and cross these trails and cross recross old paths
Retread through all the footsteps where once we where so sad
It’s nice to revisit its nice to replant
But do I garden trauma, like the spineless sycophant
In busy rooms all there for me I still feel misunderstood
But it’s ungrateful brain, and chosen pain, to say I feel unloved
I might be often drama king, I may mope and pout and grumble
Even in improving circumstance I still find myself disgruntled
I dig and dig, dig out my brain with primordial soup spoon
Phantasmagoric memories are slowly detuned
And endlessly I rewrite all my histories of you
Unstable causality, breathes into tapestries untrue
And soon unsure the guilt I feel just comes from my disposition
If these proppian dichotomies are just my own rendition
Some days I feel the hero, other days I feel the villain
Perhaps we are both mutually instigator and the victim
I want to think so fickle
And live just aesthetic life
Because this self-analysis
It cuts through like a knife
It slices so mathematically
Into these perfect halves
And the binaries of thinking
Can tear my head apart
