i. it’s good to hear your voice / cause i haven’t heard much of anything these days, beyond the bomb-blast shock of the drums on the floor and / it’s good to see your face / cause for a while, you’ve been gone / and maybe, so have i / jacket over flannel over turtleneck over little white lies / i used to tell for attention / seven years old, eyes bloodshot with desperation / it seems like a lifetime ago / like i blinked, and now i am here / sixteen years old / i’ve got my headphones in / i’ve gotta be doing something / everything / drowning out the ghosts at the door / i’ve gotta burn it to ash / paint myself an empire / and rip it to shreds / it’s not good enough, no / it never is / even when you smear blood on the wall and you don’t go outside / there’s no beauty in self-destruction / even when it’s easy on the eyes 

ii. it’s good to hear your voice / i’ve been trying / really / trying to do you right / trying to be the person you think i am / she’s really something, isn’t she? / god, i am loved / and it kills me / i am loved, and it sinks like a death wish into my bones / i am loved in every city light, every absent curve of flesh and bone / this mixed-up bag of shit / but if there’s a single lump of gold in-between the shards of glass, i’ll take it / and could you just hold me, like i am ten years old / and press kisses to my forehead / and sing me to sleep like a little kid / and i will hate it / and i will close my eyes and lean in / to your shoulder and we’re watching tv / / i am loved / in soft touches and silly jokes, in every bandage on the kitchen counter / every word i never wrote

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