taylor swift

The art room looked sticky: old paint, sad collages. 

My room echoed with the strains of my old songs,
It's a music chamber that I kept preserved in the shrine of my eleven years of absence.

Eleven shone like a balloon.
Rubbing the helium in my face.

It was a fever that I could barely remember,
The time I wandered around, mumbling,
Spiders, sisters, Harvard, hot trembling
My angst, my head, my fury bubbling,

And maybe the ipod broke from the times I hit play,
22, because I wish Taylor Swift was real
But no, just a dream,
Sorry the ipod was a little too cracked.

Is the feeling in my stomach or tummy?
It doesn't matter, I kick it to death anyway,
Knowing that gingerbread can't solve all my problems.

Can't it?
I stuff my face with sugary flour anyway.

it's not fair

When I made up names for things they followed me around
People screaming in my ears the meaningless stuff that I had deemed important enough for my bare feet to tread on.
Is the whistling I hear the screaming? Maybe it's the fading strains of 22...

Why do I remember the little things that don't make sense
A puzzle
A cuddle
My bear clutched in my fist.

And I still remember the exact smell of the sleeping porch,
Like the house lifting up and shaking itself,
Like me curling up on a gray cot
And I didn't understand it.

So I never got to say goodbye.
So it digs in me like a knife.
So my yellow walls are fake.
So I feel not ready.

I wish I would cry.