I shouldn't be posting something so incredibly personal, but I stood up to my abuser, and I am proud of myself. This feeling won't last, but I feel free for the first time in my life.
Every time the day
Darkens down and goes away
Pictures open in my head
Of me and you, silent and cliché
All the things we did and didn’t say
Covered up by what we did and didn’t do
Going through every out I used to
Cop to make the repetition stop
What was I supposed to say?
Now I never leave my zone
We’re both alone, I’m going home
I wish I’d never seen your face
Only when I drink, do I come out from inside of myself. Nobody can fucking help me. I've been gone since the miserable day I was born. Even if people did offer to help me, I couldn't accept it. I'm going to die. That's it. A therapist can't help me. It all ends up on the shoulders of my poor girlfriend who wants desperately to help someone who can't accept help. No hotline is going to make my trauma disappear. Everything is futile and hopeless.
“This shimmering space, where imagination and reality intercept, this is where all love and tears and joy exist. This is the place. This is where we live.”
“When I listen to old songs of people who are no longer with us, there’s something about it that’s meaningful to me because of that. That their voices and their ideas are still somehow in the air and we can listen to them—I love that idea. It’s not so much an ego thing about people remembering me, but just that there are voices that are speaking from the dead, or there are voices that are speaking out of history in the form of music. That’s actually really powerful—that you can listen to a blues singer moaning something that’s literally coming out of the grave.”