i'm walking backwards and i'm dancing to the music only i can hear.
it doesn't matter how or why but just being alive makes me exhilarated today; and the
words that i'm weaving are filled with quiet references and fully-armed jokes and you can't
be sure if i'm truly happy or if i'm faking and maybe,
maybe i'm not sure either - but i spin on the ball of my foot and stretch my arms out and
i'm flying.
i'm flying at a hundred thousand miles an hour and i'm tearing along the balustrade and
jumping fences and climbing picnic benches and you don't even try and keep up any more.
you're calling me a hopeless romantic and i am, but that's okay by me.
i keep on crashing and burning - arms never compensated for wings - but i'll fly on
anyway, because the opportunity that arises from giving someone everything that i have
to give it worth the pain, and there's nothing wrong with being wrong,
even if it leaves me feeling used and shamed; i'll do it over and over and i'll fall for you
over and over.
the blood rushing to my cheeks shows me up and i can't hide the emotion, but at least
i'm facing it - at least i finally have something to fight for and something to fight against.
there's something about me that just doesn't seem to be affected by fear.
you're pushing me to my limits and you're challenging me - you're expecting to hear
me tell you to stop but i'm just laughing. i'm on the edge of the precipice and i'm only
holding on with one hand and my eyes are glittering and hard.
i'm grinning at your expression of disbelief because i start wars and i want you to be
terrified of me.
you don't ever see the wars that roar behind the enamel of my teeth or in the spark
of neurological activity though, so you won't ever understand why it is that i'm like this.
the truth is, i have my good days and my bad days and my bad days are awful.
i can't explain what it is about physical pain that's self-inflicted that sounds so right,
because it's not right - but i fell victim to it, and i've got the scars to prove it; it doesn't
matter that they're hidden in a whirlwind of colour -
they're still there, and so is the desire; i can't keep trying to be who i'm not forever,
but i won't get help.
so instead i whittle away the hours with lists of why i need to learn to stay and settle
because if i can build myself a home that won't fall apart on me, i'll get better on my own.
i want to run-run-run, so i don't get swallowed by mediocrity and routine.
you suit your daily timetable, but i need momentum if i'm to avoid being eaten by my
anxiety. the idea that i might remain here for years makes me nauseous; and it doesn't
change with my state of mind.
it doesn't matter i have fallen in love with this big sky country and the snow on the hills;
i need to leave.
the concept of creating a life for myself here crushes my chest and steals my breath but
there's nothing i want more, either; because there's so much i can't do if i'm always gone.
one day i want to grow old and be called mrs somebody-special.
i'll revert back to my given name and i won't despise the way that it sounds so refined;
it sounds like all these things that i'm not and so i switched it for something that bites,
something that i can actually relate to.
i'll learn to play the piano and i'll live in italy and i'll bake bread with raisins and spice
because that's my favourite.
maybe i won't be anything like who i am now, but i'm not scared of that. i won't mind
if i trade this skin in for one that's weathered and worn; one that is loved for all that it is.
you shake your head but these morals of mine are something i won't compromise.
everyone is so proud of me and i'm glad that they are, because it isn't easy to do what
i do; it isn't easy to know that i require myself to forgive everything - it isn't easy to take
the time to admit i was wrong.
if i didn't conform to these rules i hold myself to, you'd hate me; i'm so reckless when
i lose control.
i might lie to myself but i don't lie to anyone else; but my honesty keeps you at arm's
length and that is a double-edged blade - i want you to hate me, but i care when you do.
i am your gorgeous misfit, and i live for the subtle nuances of your speech.
i live for sunsets reflected in a motorcycle helmet and speeds of two hundred and ten
kilometres an hour; for the headlights of a boeing seven four seven that i could pretend
was some over-bright satellite.
i live for the hope that even if you despise me for the secrets i keep, you'll still love me
just because i'm me.
but would you still love me if i were blind and you were deaf? if i couldn't describe the
sea or sky any more, and you couldn't hear the strings of your guitar? are you that strong?
words seem to be all i have left and yet they're falling short.
my heart is a canvas and literature my paint but my muscles are burning with lactic acid
and with my tongue pressed to my palate, i'm tasting bile because giving up makes me
sick - and i hope that this is contagious, because i don't want to be alone.
maybe i'm suffering from nervosa, but the dsm-iv doesn't explain the symptoms i show,
so it must be something else.
i think my problem is that i have a substance abuse disorder, but you're not a substance
and neither is life, not by dictionary definition; but i'm still abusing both of you anyway.
it doesn't matter how or why but just being alive makes me exhilarated today; and the
words that i'm weaving are filled with quiet references and fully-armed jokes and you can't
be sure if i'm truly happy or if i'm faking and maybe,
maybe i'm not sure either - but i spin on the ball of my foot and stretch my arms out and
i'm flying.
i'm flying at a hundred thousand miles an hour and i'm tearing along the balustrade and
jumping fences and climbing picnic benches and you don't even try and keep up any more.
you're calling me a hopeless romantic and i am, but that's okay by me.
i keep on crashing and burning - arms never compensated for wings - but i'll fly on
anyway, because the opportunity that arises from giving someone everything that i have
to give it worth the pain, and there's nothing wrong with being wrong,
even if it leaves me feeling used and shamed; i'll do it over and over and i'll fall for you
over and over.
the blood rushing to my cheeks shows me up and i can't hide the emotion, but at least
i'm facing it - at least i finally have something to fight for and something to fight against.
there's something about me that just doesn't seem to be affected by fear.
you're pushing me to my limits and you're challenging me - you're expecting to hear
me tell you to stop but i'm just laughing. i'm on the edge of the precipice and i'm only
holding on with one hand and my eyes are glittering and hard.
i'm grinning at your expression of disbelief because i start wars and i want you to be
terrified of me.
you don't ever see the wars that roar behind the enamel of my teeth or in the spark
of neurological activity though, so you won't ever understand why it is that i'm like this.
the truth is, i have my good days and my bad days and my bad days are awful.
i can't explain what it is about physical pain that's self-inflicted that sounds so right,
because it's not right - but i fell victim to it, and i've got the scars to prove it; it doesn't
matter that they're hidden in a whirlwind of colour -
they're still there, and so is the desire; i can't keep trying to be who i'm not forever,
but i won't get help.
so instead i whittle away the hours with lists of why i need to learn to stay and settle
because if i can build myself a home that won't fall apart on me, i'll get better on my own.
i want to run-run-run, so i don't get swallowed by mediocrity and routine.
you suit your daily timetable, but i need momentum if i'm to avoid being eaten by my
anxiety. the idea that i might remain here for years makes me nauseous; and it doesn't
change with my state of mind.
it doesn't matter i have fallen in love with this big sky country and the snow on the hills;
i need to leave.
the concept of creating a life for myself here crushes my chest and steals my breath but
there's nothing i want more, either; because there's so much i can't do if i'm always gone.
one day i want to grow old and be called mrs somebody-special.
i'll revert back to my given name and i won't despise the way that it sounds so refined;
it sounds like all these things that i'm not and so i switched it for something that bites,
something that i can actually relate to.
i'll learn to play the piano and i'll live in italy and i'll bake bread with raisins and spice
because that's my favourite.
maybe i won't be anything like who i am now, but i'm not scared of that. i won't mind
if i trade this skin in for one that's weathered and worn; one that is loved for all that it is.
you shake your head but these morals of mine are something i won't compromise.
everyone is so proud of me and i'm glad that they are, because it isn't easy to do what
i do; it isn't easy to know that i require myself to forgive everything - it isn't easy to take
the time to admit i was wrong.
if i didn't conform to these rules i hold myself to, you'd hate me; i'm so reckless when
i lose control.
i might lie to myself but i don't lie to anyone else; but my honesty keeps you at arm's
length and that is a double-edged blade - i want you to hate me, but i care when you do.
i am your gorgeous misfit, and i live for the subtle nuances of your speech.
i live for sunsets reflected in a motorcycle helmet and speeds of two hundred and ten
kilometres an hour; for the headlights of a boeing seven four seven that i could pretend
was some over-bright satellite.
i live for the hope that even if you despise me for the secrets i keep, you'll still love me
just because i'm me.
but would you still love me if i were blind and you were deaf? if i couldn't describe the
sea or sky any more, and you couldn't hear the strings of your guitar? are you that strong?
words seem to be all i have left and yet they're falling short.
my heart is a canvas and literature my paint but my muscles are burning with lactic acid
and with my tongue pressed to my palate, i'm tasting bile because giving up makes me
sick - and i hope that this is contagious, because i don't want to be alone.
maybe i'm suffering from nervosa, but the dsm-iv doesn't explain the symptoms i show,
so it must be something else.
i think my problem is that i have a substance abuse disorder, but you're not a substance
and neither is life, not by dictionary definition; but i'm still abusing both of you anyway.
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