You thought I liked your music, but I didn’t.
Your chords are sour and your strums seep like slop into separate sounds. Your voice is too much like copper and I think your words are too strung and too stinging to celebrate the knots in your heart. But I’ll listen anyway. I’ll keep my eyes open and my gut shut.
I have to, because without you I’d have no fuel. Your words are my fumes, your swears super unleaded. It pumps me until I can get out of bed. I guess my doctor would call it rage. I guess my mind would call it love.
You thought I liked your music, but I don’t.
I guess everyone else does because it shows them something different; something scary; something new. I guess I don’t because it’s what I hear in my head every second, and I don’t really like to share.
Oh yeah, that reminds me:
Can I have my jeans back, before you go on tour? I’ll trade them for a long goodbye.
