Surrender to 29

Sally could not make good
Within and without her body or her mirror and her
Tea kettle screaming, handfuls of hair

Because this is a hymn for a funeral for a cigarette or for
The fact that she will never be
Twenty years old again,

Never will be making love
In the saddest, saddest of ways, empty
Meaning and art and books next to the fire place

And walking home from anywhere, from everywhere
This song tastes like old books, like dust of
All of the trapped moths, they meant well

The quality of VHS tapes and dog parks
She couldn't handle the truth of cheap beer and swing sets
And Sally got all hot and bothered by sincerity

So in love with sadness, in love with blacking out and daydreams
Of taking it on top of a black grand piano
Never have never been a cobweb, a screen door

ALWAYS INNOCENT, BUT ASSUMED TO BE OTHERWISE
Sally did not want to prove the worst
The thought of January, September, November stomach aches waking up

Eyes of red desert, she is sweating in Italian
In italics because neurosis is better left
Alone and apart from boldness and lines

Hoping, please still be breathing,
Hoping hearts and souls were still intact, or at least in the drawer
On the side of the bed with the Vicodin and ghastly hatchets