sometimes i can tell

i know before i fall through that the floor’s rotten,

and i take the long way round and it’s hard but i make it okay,

and then sometimes the moldy patch isn’t actually mold,

just a shadow, or wood grain, or my active imagination,

and i took the long way and now i’m late to the party,

they’ll think so ill of me,

‘how paranoid’, they’ll say,

‘how odd she is,’

‘what a pitiful soul,’

and they’ll tut and they’ll pity me,

and not a one will care to hear about my troubles,

because that’s all i ever talk about, you see, they’re bored to death,

if you break your spine everyone will bring you flowers,

but it won’t be long til their sympathy’s tinged with annoyance,

and they pity you in the sense that they pity you and in the sense that you’re pitiful,

because nobody has time to deal with you, no, they have their own lives to live,

you’ll have to learn how to make do like everyone else,

like everyone who doesn’t have a pit under their floor,

otherwise what’s the point of you?

so sometimes when i can tell

i step on the mold anyway, i might be imagining it, i’ll take the risk

and sometimes i’m imagining it,

and sometimes i fall.

i wonder how long it’ll be til i break my spine.