I am caged by my cautious wishes,
waiting for God to call,
with several unread texts from the devil,
and a voicemail from some girl who found me at an unfortunate intersection.
I have nothing on but my notions of who and what I was,
but I strip them off,
going to war with my mirror during those miss you nights,
and hate you mornings.
I drink to remember,
grasping at gravity,
lost at sea.
There's a slip of something special,
sitting just out of reach,
and I know that if I found it,
nothing else would matter.
That's the trouble with me,
beyond the jealousy,
insecurity,
clumsy way of handling things and aversion to winter wardrobes.
I'm always looking for that one moment where I will be saved.
I spend my life waiting for the rain to stop,
staring at my umbrella, as if I can't do my part.
I try to live, but forget to try,
watching heaven rearrange itself around my head,
from the comfort of my bedsheets,
satin, soaked in tears.
I don't want to do the show tonight.
I've seen it from the other side,
and it was disgusting,
and worse, boring.
I yawned as I waited with sincerely unbaited breath,
for nothing of interest.
Watching someone fall apart is worthless,
but I've wasted your time with my theatrics again.
I'd like to do something different.
I've been practicing all sorts of exciting things,
but the cage is so particular about the performance,
and so, I have no choice but to proceed as planned,
obnoxious, over dramatic and overexposed.
My story is so touching,
but it sounds just like a lie.
It isn't.
That's the funny part.
Every word is sad but true.
That's another of the many troubles with your troubled tragedy.
An ageing ingénue,
the constant conversation piece of the desperately worried and worn out.
Am I alright, star?
Well, according to my bedside cabinet,
I'm bang tidy,
but she's holding,
and I'm barely hanging on,
so you do the math,
because I honestly believe that numbers are bullshit,
and I will not be part of your obsession with equations.
Don't worry baby,
it's just vitamins.
My pupils and my wrists are in peak condition.
I'm just high on all my lows,
so give the good doctor my best regards.
I'm a lot of work,
with no reward.
Kept in a cage,
and watched like the King of the Hollywood jungle.
A monster with no moral compass,
clinging to my complex about my shelf of sweet, sturdy senoritas,
and all the things I never said to them.
Hunted by my own shadow,
and caged,
not imprisoned and impoverished,
but caged.
Endangering, not endangered.
Saving nobody, not even myself.
Watching the ship go down,
from the sunny side of the deck with a strange kind of smile.
This is the show.
You've seen it all before,
but it's only us tonight,
so I'll give you a little something special.
Is it entertaining for you yet?
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