---I'm on my way to the kitchen---
You never loved me like you should.
I've spent years melting into your hair,
sitting behind you in classrooms and
running fingers through sweet golden
Every night retreating to your room
and sitting in the corner
I know you love me more than you show.
Back out the window,
slide down to the ground.
Frolick in the bushes,
Someday you'll realize the severity of that statement,
someday you'll wish I was yours,
someday you'll watch me ride away into the sunset
with cliche etched across my back...
and your heart clutched close to my breast.
You see right now, I'm a pawn to you.
I'm no rook or bishop;
I'm a throw-away love
hell-bent on reaching the otherside of the gameboard
and becoming your queen.
you're always three-steps ahead of me.
That whole women's intuition does you well,
but soon we'll be on a level playing field.
I'm going to become your queen.
If I can't have you as a boy,
I'm sure I can be your best girlfriend.
It always seems like night brings in a new wave of worse things.
And if I'm one of them,
then I offer my deepest condolences.
But I hate it.
Meandering around in daytime, I mean.
There's just too much.
Not of one thing in particular,
not of a lack of danger,
but more or less too much of everything.
That's why I only meet up with my friends at night.
We'll get together every Friday,
chilling with a guy I know who always brings advice to the table,
when all I really want is a beer.
He's really dependable.
I hate him for it.
Jamie always says that the walls are closing in on her.
She's always been a drama queen, though,
so there's not much reason to pay her mind.
I'm more afraid that the walls would open up,
the dams would break,
problems would flood in.
She laughs it off.
Oh, Jamie might have issues,
but paranoia is the least of them.
And then there's Kenny.
His name's drew some cruelties.
Just little things of course,
people poking fun.
Harmless fun, of course.
And then Kenny says to me, "Man,
if there's one thing I hate,
it's that I almost want to prove just how vulnerable I am."
The three of us had finished our stories,
and the man just sat there.
Glaring over half-rimmed glasses.
We've come to a consensus
that we both hate me equally.
So he'll help me with some, what,
psychoanalytical progressive disillusioning,
or some other bullshit excuse
to say for a hundred bucks an hour,
He told me he could help the others, too.
Make them stop bitching at me about their problems.
He and I both know
that I've got enough for all three of us,
and when they've got enough for all three of us too...
...well, let's just say that it gets overwhelming.
this didn't seem hard to me. We seem to share a lot of stylistic choices.
I realized that when I was doing it. Subject is the only real difference.
It was fun to write.
It was fun to write.