A: I don’t really like it here.
F: … Where?
A: Do you like it here?
- Alice Oseman, Radio Silence
hush, baby, cry softly
you’re standing on the edge of the roof, desperately hoping that the concrete stretches out farther than you’d expected.
you’re okay, okay, okay
(it’s fine, everything’s fine, we’re all fucking fine)
but sometimes the cotton-like emptiness inside your chest feels like a presence rather than absence
and is that right?
sweetheart, don’t you miss home?
don’t you want to tear apart the fabric of time and go back to waking up to the view of the lazy afternoon sunshine on your bedroom ceiling?
don’t you want to yell after your parents to close the door on their way out one more time?
hush, baby, don’t cry
at least we’re all under the same sky.
you’re a blurry screenshot of youth, listening to indie music and romanticizing your sadness.
are you going to wait till the cigarette burns down to the filter,
till the whisky takes the edge off of the pain,
to stand on your tiptoes and appreciate the rain?
i know you miss the love you never had,
i know you’d rather be mad,
you don’t want to go miles before you sleep,
so you lay down your weapons and let yourself bleed.
and your friends wonder if you’re here or have exploded already, like a star, and they’re looking at millions of years into the past,
so tell me, my dear, if you’re simply lost in time because they’re shouting so loudly for you to hear.
do you believe me? does anyone believe me? perhaps it is me who’s lost.
across the table but so far away,
love, you’re lost in a thousand yesterdays.