---

You decided on your own,
to give it time to grow and I don't,
fault you for it.
It wasn't set in stone,
but pulled you down below the rocks,
and somehow got so slippery and unforgiving.

Can't be mad at you,
but I am.

I tried to do my part,
I learned I'm not so pure of heart,
it tore my modesty apart.
And you stood, and you shook,
a frantic windblown open book,
sometimes I look to you,
and sometimes I just look.


Before I get it out,
I pin it down and cut it up,
and watch it die unfound.
Before you get it out,
you scare it off and sing too loud,
to let it be a memory of something,
deep down and quiet.

Can't be mad at you,
but I am.

I count up my hangups.
Like stacking paper cups,
one in the next, so perfectly aligned.
And I reach for signs,
but I make them all up in my mind.
Sometimes I see a light,
sometimes it's just light.

We've got it all coming down,
just like, just like an old house.
We got it all,
just like an old home.

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