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Vintage Recording of a Montage of Farewells

Every nerve in your body becomes cold, numb

Your eyes are just lenses

Your hands are a shelf

Your ears are a subwoofer

And every thing you do becomes senseless

There is a special kind of emptiness that you feel when you don’t have a heart

When you don’t know what it feels to have your heart throb, or your heartbroken

But the best thing you have to hold onto is a special kind of heartache

Its called yearning, and dreaming

I’ve felt this kind of pain

Where you have so much time on your hands that you can only think

But you have nothing and no one to think about

So you think about everything

What’s wrong with me

Why can’t I get them to look this way

Is it my hair

Is it my body

There is a special kind of emptiness you feel after you press the end button

This one is physically cold

Where your bedroom feels hallowed 

And your skin is alive with the scary kind of chills

As I lay stripped of my dignity

With dry hands and wet eyes

And I have so much time on my hands that i can only think

But i have nothing and no one to think about

So i think about everything and everyone 

What’s wrong with me

Why can’t I get them to look this way

Is it my hair

Is it my body

Is it my voice

There is a special kind of emptiness that someone with anxiety feels

You become paranoid, scared

Your reflexes are a barricade

Every beautiful and every thank you

Ricochets off of you like a fresh water tide to latex

I have sad days on vinyl

Goodbyes on vinyl

A vintage, recorded montage of farewells

Greetings from people who have walked out before they walked in

You get used to the emptiness

Personalize the space with your favourite trinkets and photographs

My space is black

There’s a painting of a woman on the wall with a sliding window

The woman is white

Her body is not

There’s a collection of CD’s on the floor, and a bed that has been ripped apart by sleeplessness in the middle

No doors

I’ve made it my home

There’s a special kind of emptiness you feel when you’re alone

I guess we all are sometimes

Alone in our bedrooms on a friday night

Table for one at McDonalds, Tuesday afternoons

Blues eyes, green eyes

Pink hair

The 0.4 percent

The weekends when you have so much time on your hands that you can only think

But have nothing and no one to think about

So you think about everything, everyone, anything, something, nothing…

Whats wrong with me

Why can’t I get them to look this way

Is it my hair

Is it my body

Is it my voice

Is it my skin

Is it me?

Yeah, I’ve made it my home