i smiled at your father and i was thinking, "i had a lot of fun having sex with your daughter" and his eyes were flitting like blinds and i was thinking of your lips tugging on mine and i walked away after he said "hello." i am tired of hearing that home has a heartbeat and if it does then i guess yours is a cigarette cough and a sinew snap. everything about you was replaced when you left. last time i saw you, your hair looked tired and your eyes were flat. i think you've lost your mind and i know how you can get it back.
i don't know what you're saying anymore, tori.
i mean sometimes i wish i could tell you that i miss you but i don't. you should see the people here. they're all brass strings and fluttery fingers and they don't mind if you stay awhile to pick them apart. you are pretty and all but their bones (don't) taste like bullets. fucking you in the dugout was just a way to pass my summer. i'm learning, victoria, i'm learning to tell the difference between what's beautiful and what is broken.
my mind is just fine please and thanks.
(i'm sorry that i fell in love with your spine instead of you)
brass strings break and fluttery fingers fall apart. i'm sorry you forgot that you are made of bones and skin and blood just like all the rest of us. people aren't gold and your eyes aren't either. i'm so sorry that they used to be, and i don't know how to tell you what i think of you. everytime i try my tongue feels really big in my mouth, like if i talk i'll choke on it. last night when i got stoned the ceiling was shedding it's summer clothing in reds and blues and vanilla bean hues and i know that doesn't make sense but i wish you would have seen it. and maybe you'd believe me when i tell you that people aren't gold and bones aren't either. you are smoke in the rain and fog on my windowpane. i wish i knew how to tell you. (what's beautiful and what's broken are always the same.)
didn't we both used to dream about this?
maybe they aren't golden, tori, but at least they have henna-stained fingers and green eyes. that's more than i can say for you.
i know exactly what you mean by vanilla ceilings and reds and blues, and tori, around here i don't even need to be high for that. your eyes don't shatter anymore, and your feet are worn. i had to leave, don't you understand? broken and beautiful aren't the same, and you're much too broken to be beautiful.
(my eyes are blue)
your eyes are blue and green but they're not anything like the ocean because they don't rage or steam they are flat and (E)motionless. you lie with them. and you're lying to me now because it's so much easier to make love or death on paper and you don't know it but you're making both. you can't see vanilla ceilings if you're seeing with sober eyes but i guess i can't think for you anymore. i met a girl who drinks beer like boys do but wears heels like our mothers used to do. you're much too beautiful to be broken, which makes you ugly after all.
i am beautiful and i don't need to hear it from you.
don't you see? i only make love on paper because they are telling me too.
victoria, i miss you.
i lied, i fucking lied.
i'm getting too skinny but i've turned brown all over, and when i curve my body just right the lack of flesh over my hip turns into the tent where we made love for the first time. don't tell me my eyes don't feel anything because we both ask too many questions and that is what tore us apart.
do you remember the day i told you your spine was the most beautiful thing i've seen? i lied, tori. (i really meant the bony bit between your breasts.) i'm a fucking liar and i made you promise to never trust someone who fits my criminal description. tori, you have to keep that promise.
i've met girls who fight the world with nothing but a ragged fingernail and girls who can paint for real cheap because all they need is their words. none of them came close to you so please don't write back.