"I like this guy. He's not cute, or physically appealing in anyway, but he's funny. He's always thinking of something new, he's articulate. I just want him to notice me for me. We're friends, but not great friend. I worry I'm not good enough."
we are matches but i'm soaking wet.
and the others, they're standing next to the lighting strips,
ready to ignite themselves for what they love.
because where we come from, we get to choose what we burn for.
and of some us choose music, or art, or the cigarettes that become a part of peoples' lungs.
some of us burn for the things we need. and some of us haven't figured out
that needing something and wanting something
don't have to be two different things.
you see, what catches us in our walk to the lighting strip is knowledge
that what is lit must always burn out.
and we don't know how long we have.
but of a few things i am sure.
you're not the best match in the box. the phosphorous coating your head is smudged;
more rust than red. there's a cra/ck towards the bottom of the stick,
and people think you look as funny as your jokes.
we are matches and i'm soaking wet, but if the sandpaper would catch, i'd gladly burn for you.
from the bed of secrets that lie in wait.
-kiss kiss kiss, honest when it rains-