Anxiety: A Ghost Story by Brenna Twohy Lyrics
We have got to talk about the kids in all those Goosebumps books.
For example, if your family vacation is to an amusement park called "Horrorland"
And your station wagon explodes in the parking lot upon arrival,
maybe shrugging it off,
Buying an extra-large popcorn and heading directly to the Deadly Doom Slide is not your best possible course of action.
Or, if you steal a weird camera from your creepy neighbor's basement and
All the pictures you take show bad things
happening,
Like decapitation and also tofurkey.
And, then all the bad things from all the pictures start happening
Stop. Taking. Pictures.
Or, if you move into your new house and there's a bunch of small children already living in your bedroom that your parents can not see,
Maybe don't just grab a juice box and go to play in the cemetery that is in your backyard.
Or, when I tell about the ghosts that live inside my body.
When I tell you I have a cemetery in my backyard,
And in my front yard,
And in my bedroom.
When I tell you that trauma is a steep slide
You cannot see the bottom of,
That my anxiety is a camera that shows everyone I love as bones,
When I tell you, when I tell you that panic is a stubborn phantom, that she will grab onto me and not let go
for months.
This is the part of the story where everyone is telling you
to run.
To love me is to love a haunted house. It's fun to visit once a
year, but no one wants to live there.
And when you say, "Tell me about the bad days,"
It sounds like all the neighborhood kids daring each
other to ring the doorbell.
And you love me like the family walking through Horrorland holding hands.
You are not stupid, or careless, or even brave.
You've just never seen the close-up of a haunting.
Darling, this love will not cure me.
This love will not scrape the blood from the baseboards, but it will turn all the lights on.
It will bring basil back from the Farmer's Market and it will plant it in every windowsill.
It is the kind of love that gives me goosebumps.
When you say to the ghost,
"If you're staying, then you'd better make room,"
And we kiss against the walls that, tonight, are not shaking,
So we turn the music up, and we dance to Miles Davis
and we turn the music up and we dance to Miles Davis
And you say, "My god. This house. The way that it stands even in the months that no one goes into or comes out
of it."
How reckless.
The way that I love, like the first chapter of a ghost story,
Like a gentle hand reaching out of a grave.
For example, if your family vacation is to an amusement park called "Horrorland"
And your station wagon explodes in the parking lot upon arrival,
maybe shrugging it off,
Buying an extra-large popcorn and heading directly to the Deadly Doom Slide is not your best possible course of action.
Or, if you steal a weird camera from your creepy neighbor's basement and
All the pictures you take show bad things
happening,
Like decapitation and also tofurkey.
And, then all the bad things from all the pictures start happening
Stop. Taking. Pictures.
Or, if you move into your new house and there's a bunch of small children already living in your bedroom that your parents can not see,
Maybe don't just grab a juice box and go to play in the cemetery that is in your backyard.
Or, when I tell about the ghosts that live inside my body.
When I tell you I have a cemetery in my backyard,
And in my front yard,
And in my bedroom.
When I tell you that trauma is a steep slide
You cannot see the bottom of,
That my anxiety is a camera that shows everyone I love as bones,
When I tell you, when I tell you that panic is a stubborn phantom, that she will grab onto me and not let go
for months.
This is the part of the story where everyone is telling you
to run.
To love me is to love a haunted house. It's fun to visit once a
year, but no one wants to live there.
And when you say, "Tell me about the bad days,"
It sounds like all the neighborhood kids daring each
other to ring the doorbell.
And you love me like the family walking through Horrorland holding hands.
You are not stupid, or careless, or even brave.
You've just never seen the close-up of a haunting.
Darling, this love will not cure me.
This love will not scrape the blood from the baseboards, but it will turn all the lights on.
It will bring basil back from the Farmer's Market and it will plant it in every windowsill.
It is the kind of love that gives me goosebumps.
When you say to the ghost,
"If you're staying, then you'd better make room,"
And we kiss against the walls that, tonight, are not shaking,
So we turn the music up, and we dance to Miles Davis
and we turn the music up and we dance to Miles Davis
And you say, "My god. This house. The way that it stands even in the months that no one goes into or comes out
of it."
How reckless.
The way that I love, like the first chapter of a ghost story,
Like a gentle hand reaching out of a grave.