You fight with me in the dining room
Everything I say is right
except I'm not leaning over a chair
with a glass in my hand and water forming on the outside
and a memory in the back of my eye
of people who weren't there long on one of many streets
kicking rocks that mattered into alleys and ravines
and lights that are only blurry streaks
You yell so loud you make yourself hate me
We stare so hard we're looking at ourselves
so you go to your room and pretend I locked you in
and all you can do is read
something that's not really about you
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