Downstairs, voices.
Sunday morning they're so bright and alive
Like family visiting and the kettle boiling
All those places they have to go.
Upstairs, clutch at silence.
Please please let me disappear
Countertop strewn with takeout garbage
All dressed up in clothes from Friday
Slept with every light on
Oh come now celebrate your terrible ordinariness
Strap yourself down, you'll still careen towards Monday
Stay off the bus, the cold can't take away the plain
Dress yourself in blood --
You'll look pretty just the same.
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