It was a simple provocation
apple, orange, who cares?
silly stories aren't silly stories
when they paint a picture so real
a girl whose good enough is never
good enough, she wants more,
more, in addition to all things
at her feet she'll take divine knowledge
like a shopoholic with no room to store
the bounty, she buys up this and that
just to have more of something she
can't really consume. Suddenly she is broken
despairing, but not sorry, never really.
It just doesn't work out, she can't swim the tide
on her own, flooding just drowns her, there is no
restoring, she'll never be anything like what she
was supposed to be. So why does she cry, "Save me!"?
It must be that fear thing, that needy insecure thing
it could never be because she needs saving, her brilliant
mind is far too brilliant for that type of need. She's
good really, sweet and kind in all the ways she can
face you that is. It's her secret self she won't bare,
the fig leaf of hidden thought her covering, she lives
in that false midnight. She'll dig up every old habit,
old boyfriend, old feelings, old hurts, anything that
felt other than now, she'll recussitate any old thing
like an ER doctor with electrode paddles
she is desperate for these things to breathe.
the right exercise, diet, clothes, a good book
she scurries around playing god, snacking on
the forbidden fruit of perfection, just one more
bite from everything she has ever wanted
bringing life to death, she has too much intelligence
to believe a man can die and come to life, so she
breathes life into things that never lived at all, yes,
that is it, she's the goddess of wishful thinking,
bowed at the alter of wishes lost, her self appointed
deity a flimsy gauze covering her wounds.