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Untitled #17
My hands go straight through you now.
I guess you can’t hear me screaming,
Or maybe you always could.
And suddenly I am twelve again.
I watch my father put his boots on for the last time.
The house is filled with sobs but I am silent,
somewhere down the street,
eating dinner with a family that I saw in a magazine.
I guess you can’t hear me screaming,
Or maybe you always could.
And suddenly I am twelve again.
I watch my father put his boots on for the last time.
The house is filled with sobs but I am silent,
somewhere down the street,
eating dinner with a family that I saw in a magazine.
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