iamdelilah

You called me adorable when I was standing there in my underwear and my hoody. I called you a pervert from the top of the stairs and stumbled after you. I don’t know why everyone seems to think I was drunk that night, and I really don’t know why the words kept slipping from my mouth out onto the coffee table, but  if I wasn’t talking everyone would  just be thinking about what a failure I am. These preconceived notions are the reason for my self deprecation, I suppose. I asked the doctor if he would just finish me off right there, but he just suggested I get some medicine. I guess the real s

I look down at my bloody palm and wonder if it would be all that awful to wipe it clean on the subway cushion, and what types of diseases I might get. There are much weirder people here, I wouldn't be that out of place, like that 'gothic' kid over there, with some random picture of a Mexican on his t-shirt, and that Arabian women, who just doesn't stop singing, though she probably should. I look down at the pick I busted, playing that love song I wrote for you, and played for the first time last Saturday, when you were too busy to come see my gig, because you've heard us a million times over. I hate to say that