I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction.
Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened.
So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist,
and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.”
So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell,
and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell.
Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks,
and never found a response in my post office box.
And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me
before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry.
I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger.
I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer.
I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers,
but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others.
You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble,
and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle.
And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive;
but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die.
And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario;
I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo.
We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper
with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.