My Version Never Ends

It is those memories and notions that I'll bind by the wrist and yank into the spotlight now,

Drugged up and dragged out,

Like a slave girl of the Hutt.

But you don't have to.

You don't have to do this.

You can 

Find your heart a Her that cures your hurt.

And if her name won't come in bed,
Push mine out of your head.

And that head can't rid my face,
Sour grapes are your disgrace.

And if those grapes won't die in wine,
Another glass might ease the pine.

And if the wall won't yield to your fist,
Give that voice inside a twist.

Listen to its lies all night,
Insisting you've moved on just right.

And if that mockingbird won't do,
Then it's also a poor substitute.

Years later, you walk by the people in the frames on your wall, their eyes tall, their eyes full, like glasses of water. Kind of fucked up that they're forced to watch everything you do in that room. Kind of fucked up that I'm still on that wall. It's the middle of the night. You can hear the house settling, cracking its knuckles. Photos aren't allowed to close their eyes, you know.