Counting Threads.

You turn your head so much,
twisting your neck at impossible
angles, only to look for excuses
to feel miserable, you bend and
try to break so desperately and
I want to whisper to you: it's
never been that difficult, it's
never been a wonder we were
bitter from the start.

Fools move ahead, and yet the
wise and even the children know
when something wasn't meant to be,
they stare in pity at your dirty
hands, digging for something that
never was and burying something
that's already grown too far, now
away from you. You keep pushing
and we keep moving.

I have never had the guts to set
anything straight, only crooked
lines to fend for myself, but
I've seen and kept quiet for too
long, it doesn't matter how you
make yourself to see it, what's
been true is what you deny and
what you avoid: we've always lived
tearing at the seams.

You try to hang your bones on a suit
of flesh that doesn't fit you, and
never has. You've known it from the
start, yet your mouth keeps reciting
the same constructed lies, and counting
on the lose threads of the past you create
knots of whispers lined with jealousy,
embracing what makes you tie them tighter,
what makes you bleed the most, tainting us.

Carrying fire on your voice, you
seek to burn down entire decades of
decisions made on sake of fragile
creatures, and it sounds insane that
even after years of war and pain
you keep using weapons against the
same place, it turns you paranoid
and senseless, not even a shadow
of you left.

We thought we were done putting out
fires, taming storms with bare hands,
but far from being over you keep
going to the start, to the irreparable,
broken past. I have learned by now of
empty wishes, never believing in the
better, always breathe to survive and
nothing more, don't count on anyone,
all out for anybody's throat.

It takes ghosts of scrapped knees and
lonely nights, of catching the salt water
you were never there to dry, to finally
see that I have learned nothing from your
words, but so much of your angry stare, your
tight fists, your grimace and your down
turned eyes. How promises of happiness bring
utopian notions of being able to be, and I have
learned nothing from you, but so much from
your mistakes, and even more so of the ones
that you think are, but really never have been.