you’ll tell this story differently,
every time i ask
details rearranging
tangled up inside your mind
you’ll tell this story differently
every time i ask
paint the faces on my skin
and hand me the photographs in a leather bag, to carry
cause your memories never stay still for very long
bending and breaking
stiff to the touch, porcelain
on the shelf look but don’t touch
don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch
tiptoe over the bleeding sores
bandage wounds; never yours
it’s not asking for much
to chart a muddled-up mythology
of hospital beds and tragic loves
of people i’ve never met; they are monsters
and angels, staring right through me
you tell this story differently
every time i ask, twisting up the wires
and forgive me, but sometimes it’s hard not to wonder
how much time we’ve got left
before the ceiling buckles beneath the weight
before the roof melts beneath acid rain
and i’m the only one left to remember what has been
and this folklore will wrap around my wrists
grow up along my throat
my bleeding trachea; my tender, desperate hope
bind me to my deathbed, oh god i’m all alone
whatever i had, all that’s left is me
and this rotting piece of rope