• Things Haven't Changed Much


    It's late at night
    And you're so drunk
    The cops almost drove you home.

    You sneak through the doorway,
    Clothes smelling like smoke
    Breath like booze
    Hair made of wires and oil
    And your life made of matches.

    You stumble around,
    Looking for that back-up bottle,
    Digging under the bed,
    Like you've never dug before.

    And then you can't find it,
    Like you 'can't find your homework,'
    Or you can't find your life.

    So you look for the knife,
    And find it on the dresser.
    Roll up your sleeve,
    And see the tic-tac-toe board scratched into your skin.
    Oh damn, the game's already over, and you lost.

    So you drop that,
    Let it clatter on the dresser,
    Loud and clear, 'cause if mom and dad come in,
    There won't be any surprise, or worry.
    Nope, not for you. Not anymore.

    Then your head comes up,
    And your captured in the mirror, the thing above your dresser that you always get sucked into.
    You're wild, and crazy,
    Pale, ungroomed,
    Everything you always wanted to be.
    Right?

    And then you turn away,
    Maddened by your own illness,
    Only to be sucked in again,
    Into something you never expected.

    A small picture frame on your bedside table.
    When did that get there?

    In it is a little you inside that square,
    Caught on surprise by the flash of a camera,
    And it just so happens to be when
    Your arms are crossed self-consciously,
    And your eyes are red from rubbing,
    And your mouth is bent into that permanent frown,
    That you still try to cover up today.

    So you're frozen in time with this little picture,
    And now that you think about it,
    Things haven't changed much, have they?