nathanael.ink

it’s nights like these that i’m glad i don’t
own a gun
there’s a butchers knife in the kitchen
i heard that elliott smith had to stab himself twice
to make it last
i’m not sad enough for that
i’m sad enough for a gun
but not two stabs from a butchers knife

on my birthday i was born
and every year, to the day, since then
i’ve wondered why
i’ve wished upon a star every year, to the day
since then,
to not have been

i’m not two butchers knives
but i’m a gun, i’m a couple hundred pills
and if my fingers were electric motors
i’d drive them through
but i’m cartilage and bone
i’m a lonely skull

i haven’t felt this way in a long time
i’m two large windows without a single screen
all i hope
is to feel this way again
(i mean, to live long enough, to feel this way again after feeling this way today, tonight, ends)