Letra de The Postman Doesn't Come At Night (Demo)
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I want to drink the blood from the throat of something ancient and impossibly strange,
feel its fur between my teeth,
its lungs breathing through my lungs.
feel its fur between my teeth,
its lungs breathing through my lungs.
I want moonlight in my eyes so I’m painting crosses beneath my lies,
terrified that you’ll break your spine bending over backwards to make me feel okay,
and it’s not okay and will never be.
So I sat in silence and ground my teeth to powder,
watched a dubious zebra and poisoned cobra fight in the waving tree branches till the sky turned dark,
till silhouettes wash into backdrop and my mouth fills with smoke,
I cross my fingers till they break and weave together.
My hands are boats taking on water.
I’m drinking out of bathroom faucets,
breaking mirrors in subway stations.
I’m solving puzzles only so I know how to dismantle things,
keeping keys beneath my fingernails to doors beneath rivers and across countries.
I’m singing you songs from broken staircases in the corner of our former homes.
I had notes written,
dizzy and manic in scratched out eyes of painted saints in forest churches in languages I’ve forgotten while tangled up in bed sheets and hanging from the ceiling fans but the postman doesn’t come at night and I just can’t bare the light and all you are is light.
terrified that you’ll break your spine bending over backwards to make me feel okay,
and it’s not okay and will never be.
So I sat in silence and ground my teeth to powder,
watched a dubious zebra and poisoned cobra fight in the waving tree branches till the sky turned dark,
till silhouettes wash into backdrop and my mouth fills with smoke,
I cross my fingers till they break and weave together.
My hands are boats taking on water.
I’m drinking out of bathroom faucets,
breaking mirrors in subway stations.
I’m solving puzzles only so I know how to dismantle things,
keeping keys beneath my fingernails to doors beneath rivers and across countries.
I’m singing you songs from broken staircases in the corner of our former homes.
I had notes written,
dizzy and manic in scratched out eyes of painted saints in forest churches in languages I’ve forgotten while tangled up in bed sheets and hanging from the ceiling fans but the postman doesn’t come at night and I just can’t bare the light and all you are is light.
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