� On the wall � 2002-01-13 � 2:00 p.m. �
You speak of simplicity as if it exists...
You speak of me.
Don't.
There are parts of me you have never known... parts of me I'll never let you see... I am nothing more to you that a pretty petty scene.
Time does nothing but clock on... it's not a tool... it does not mend....
I guess it's easy for you to fix yourself... there's nothing on your face put there by someone else. There are no scars inflicted by another's hand... and he doesn't keep coming back to you... one... two... three... another chance. When you look at your face... you see you... you don't see me and the blood that streams down this face.
Someone tried to convince herself that things can be broken down and dealt with... but I guess she hasn't seen enough yet... there is plenty much too complex for that... plenty that can't be broken in any way at all.. somethings just are.... somethings will just be.
And I don't talk to you... because you are what I always knew you were... I don't ask about you... because what you were... you still are... I didn't try... because I don't want to try... I don't want your words... I don't want your voice... and I'd pay a milllion to rid myself of your face and it's bitter taste.
Somethings... me... you... my past and yours... your weight... and they way you pin me... can't be metabolized as long as we exist...
Every night is hell for me - I see you... you come... you hurt... and you try to rationalize...
You speak of me as though simplicity will one day find me....
Becasue of you... it won't. So please don't.
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