I thought I’d be put together by now,
but my evenings are just as dull and I’m as lonely as I ever was,
avoiding my face in the mirror,
so I can’t see how disappointed I am with how everything turned out,
you see, the thing I figured out is that nobody is really happy,
we just tell ourselves that
we’re happy,
or that we’re on the way to happiness,
so that we aren’t too angry at the thought of walking towards nothing.
You tell yourself that you’re happy,
or that maybe one day you could be,
and it makes it so much easier to survive the sadness,
because even if you can’t feel something other than sadness on your skin,
you can imagine a time when it will be different,
so that you don’t have to imagine a lifetime of remaining maddeningly unfulfilled by the empty chasm that capitalism leaves behind in your soul, every night when it is done with you.
Capitalism has never been a kind lover,
no matter how gently I kiss it,
no matter how many times that I wish it was so,
he has always left me in a sea of shame,
the room is always dark when I fall asleep,
and his arms never stay to comfort me,
no matter how many times that I wish it was so.
The girl I thought I’d be lies broken in the shadows of my imagination,
and I can’t put her back together,
no matter how many times that I wish it was so.
