I would like to wallow in self pity. With ice-cream. And the last few Grey's Anatomy episodes. Alone. I don't want to be near the phone, because the last time I was, I did not have anyone to call. That's when I realized I needed to do this- wallow in self pity. With ice-cream. It's not enough, it never is, to be who you are. You have to improvise on yourself, have something up your sleeve constantly- pull out endless colorful handkerchiefs or better still, rabbits from a hat- to keep them coming back for more.

I want to sit here and listen to Tim McGraw till I die and pretend that reading Harry Potter is life. I don't want them coming back, I wish they'd all go away and leave me alone. My knees are chipped you see from the kneeling and I can't do that anymore. I can't conjure up the ace of spades from that sleeve, neither can I pretend to vanish coins while sneaking them beneath it. I would cut myself in half and join myself back together, but whats the point? What's the bloody point?

So I am going to sit here and wallow in self pity. With ice-cream.

Pieces

You try to collect the pieces
Scattered across coffee-shops and movie halls
Flying around in the emptiness, soaring high
You hear them break into further pieces when they fall

They have a reflective surface, quite like mirrors
They pinch and hurt and bleed when they stick to you
You cast them off, leave them behind
While the path glitters- Grey and cold and blue

They are everywhere you go
Every turn, every corner, every dead end
They fall, they scatter further and they stick to you
You chase them, you run away from them, you hurt and pretend

As if they are not pieces of you
As if they are not the pieces of your broken heart
Of winter skies, sunny mornings, intoxicating nights
Of your bittersweet, not-so-long-ago past...