“We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting”.

18
Nov 12

 

Rickets

 

It's so simple to look at every little thing I do wrong.
It's so simple to overlook every little thing I do right, right?

I think too much.
I feed too much.
I'm gone too much.
I skate too much.

I snore too much.
I'm blowing too much.
I ate too much.
I'm way too much too stuck up.

You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't want to listen.
You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't even care.

I dream too much.
I think too much.
I step too much.
Those things too much.
I am too much.
I'm pissed too much.
I need too much.
I'm not one to trust.

You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't want to listen.
You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't even care.
And if it was mine to say...
... I wouldn't say it.
And if it was mine to say...
... I wouldn't speak.

I'm blowin' too much.
I think too much.
I eat too much.
My face too much.

I feed too much.
I piss too much.
I sleep too much.
I snap too often.

You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't want to listen.
You're probably right...
... this time, but I don't even care.

And if it was mine to say...
... I wouldn't say it.
And if it was mine to say...
... I wouldn't speak.

 

Lyrics by Deftones/Letra dos Deftones

 

Post Scriptum: começa aqui com a lembrança poderosa da rapariga que sou na camisola de mangas compridas

que se alastraram.

Mangas que ia puxando até aos pulsos mais e mais e que depois cobriam o tamanho dos dedos de unhas.

Tinha vintes e não sei, e a camisola negra com que eu cobria a carne, fazia-me sentir subversões de afundar os olhos ou só a usava quando os olhos se afundavam…

Vesti uma da família dessas hoje e depois falarei do resto, da voz da canção, do que aí chegou, do que me trouxe e do que me fez recordar.

Tudo isto embrulhado em papel de Natal que vem aos bocadinhos.

Está tudo ali em cima, não é?

É.

Todas essas coisas de -demasiado rapariga de camisola até ao fim dos braços- presa na ponta dos dedos.

De rapariga funda que vai ao fundo, ou o fundo despe-a demasiado para que seja destrinçada e tragada em

porções apropriadas?

 

publicado por Ligeia Noire às 03:11
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