Woke up, caught me with a smile
Passed out on your bathroom tile
Man, I think that this is home
So sad, I should’ve told her something
Call her up and talk about nothing
But I forgot I lost my phone
West Coast by FIDLAR
On my days off, I sleep until noon, shower, and then fall back into sleep. I wake and shower again, make and promptly break plans.
Saturday night blurs into hours of banana pancake and tequila vomit. On Sunday, my bones are too hollow for my body to be anything but stationary. My attempts to make everyone happy are met with furrowed brows and requests to run things past her first. I keep my mouth shut, in equal measure remorseful and petulant.
“I’m just trying to help,” I want to whine, “I just want you love me again.”
Everything smells like sauerkraut and tobacco. The summer I’ve been looking forward to all winter is almost here, but I can’t remember to turn my clocks forward, or when it became March. I wake up hours before my alarm, make small talk with the last time I felt safe. My hair is greasy at the roots but my boss won’t notice if my lipstick is inside the lines.
I applaud myself on the metaphor. I wonder if I couch everything that way, poignant and besides the point, if taxi drivers will stop asking me if I’m OK. If I’ll stop getting off the train at night in the worst parts of town, waiting for them to make good on everyone’s warnings.