And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time, All the time.
Like isn’t the same as love. Like is sugar substitute. Like is we have a lot in common but most of the time I’ll be lonely. While I washed dishes this morning, Radiohead came on the shuffle and I was upset without warning. My ex played this song all the time at the end of our marriage. I’d hear the guitar wail through the floorboards, and think, It wears me out. It wears me out.
Why can’t I stop thinking about Christ Pantocrator? The first, and most diabolical of all propaganda. I SIT IN JUDGMENT OF YOU ALL!
In my youth, I was too easily disappointed. I see that now. At some point, I quit marveling at the shells of locusts and started scoffing at the tedium of car trips. Fake Plastic Trees is the anthem of my twenties. The exhaustion of seeing the world’s problems so fucking clearly and why isn’t anyone doing anything about this? Why are we all pretending our myths are true? How much of my blood do you want? How many gallons do you need to see inside me? My poor sugar substitute love. My purposeful like. If I could be who I wanted. If I could be who I wanted. All the time. All the time.