MIRROR
10.24.20
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
they kind of suck, you know.
sorry, sorry. That’s not to say you have bad taste.
But you do.
like the time you locked yourself in a bathroom crying at Sundance because the candles were made of beeswax and you couldn’t stop feeling the sting of the deceased.
or that other time you called me selfish for carrying my clothes in plastic.
My only change of clothes.
It was raining.
I don’t mean bad taste as in “it all sounds the same.”
I mean bad taste as in: How dare you think it will stay the same? How dare you not give the world the benefit of the doubt? how dare you not give me the benefit of the doubt? Bad taste like, we’ll never know if you thought yourself too much, or thought us too little.
At least when you were breathing, your voice-box gave us choice. Now you’ve muffled it with un-processed grief and left behind the climax of your disappointment as a legacy.
That’s what happens when you leave in a hurry. You leave things behind.
Unfinished bits waiting for the sailors knot to make them a little less loose, a little more beginning. That baggage stings harder than honey.
I can say this: Your chaos echoed. I found me digging for feeling in strange bodies, looking for catharsis in connection. The one you took, is the same I press against pillows and nothing feels good. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels good.
And I know, I know. I should be happy for you. You finally got what you wanted. And I know it’s selfish to rest my marrow to the bone and want to call it life, but when you lost your hope — you took a piece of mine with it. Because what good is the world if all the best ones keep on stinging our feet?
I’m angry at you.