Untitled 21 by Emily Horton Lyrics
The fields that I am running from, the ferrotype of seventeen
The cigarettes you smoked to keep yourself from ever reaching me
And there's the reason I don't know how else to dwell myself to sleep
The times you didn't say it back, the tally marks all adding up
I'd like to tell you off but I'm afraid you wouldn't call my bluff
And there's the reason I don't know how else to know you've had enough
I tear it out, I fold it up, I take a picture in my room
The time I made a list of every different way you would fall through
And there's the map I traced when freckles on a back just wouldn't do
The room I am sleep in when I'm home, the bed frame, broken on the floor
A measurement of height, the top is your name, lines the childhood door
And there's the reason I don't try erasing ghosts much anymore
The place we filled with painted flowers, I run the wash twice before noon
I feel the door close and below I hear the clattering of shoes
And there's the answer for avoiding what we both know to be true
Well, is it art if it doesn't hurt me
I'm tired of seeing all the rooms where you closed doors
Was it real or am I still learning
How to tell the difference between memories and moors
Is it art if it doesn't hurt me
I'm tired of seeing all the rooms where you closed doors
Was it real or am I still learning
How to tell the difference between memories and moors
The cigarettes you smoked to keep yourself from ever reaching me
And there's the reason I don't know how else to dwell myself to sleep
The times you didn't say it back, the tally marks all adding up
I'd like to tell you off but I'm afraid you wouldn't call my bluff
And there's the reason I don't know how else to know you've had enough
I tear it out, I fold it up, I take a picture in my room
The time I made a list of every different way you would fall through
And there's the map I traced when freckles on a back just wouldn't do
The room I am sleep in when I'm home, the bed frame, broken on the floor
A measurement of height, the top is your name, lines the childhood door
And there's the reason I don't try erasing ghosts much anymore
The place we filled with painted flowers, I run the wash twice before noon
I feel the door close and below I hear the clattering of shoes
And there's the answer for avoiding what we both know to be true
Well, is it art if it doesn't hurt me
I'm tired of seeing all the rooms where you closed doors
Was it real or am I still learning
How to tell the difference between memories and moors
Is it art if it doesn't hurt me
I'm tired of seeing all the rooms where you closed doors
Was it real or am I still learning
How to tell the difference between memories and moors