I want to take the bullet,
The one aimed straight for your heart.
I want to meet the wolves halfway
And let them tear me apart,
But that’s not the way they do it here.
I want to lay on the tracks,
Feel hot steel screaming at me.
Expose the bones on my back,
Let me show you what I mean.
Yeah, it’s a different kind of love.
I want to climb barbed wire fences
And warm our hands in blood.
And this is my gift
Asking you to fix my ruined hands.
And it’s a gift that keeps on giving,
And right now it’s all I have to give.
I want to write the perfect song,
And play it just for you,
While you are tangled up in sleep.
I need you more than I’ll ever know.
Until I stop breathing,
My lungs will take you for granted.
—Thrice, In Years To Come
I remember a time in my life when I was scared about love. A set of rather adolescent experiences in high school, of which I only now find myself comfortable speaking frankly, had caused me to cling to an unattainable ideal. In Lolita, Humbert Humbert well describes such a happenstance that similarly “made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today”.
Eventually, I had given up my ideal, but still felt forever tainted, regretfully breaking more than enough hearts in the process.
And as fleeting as the entire experience was, it still enough to galvanize, to make me want to take that bullet, or let the wolves tear me apart. Being tangled up in that mad love, the love that goes against reason or better judgement, softened the stone in my chest, and it felt like I was finally alive.
Gimmie a girl who can make me feel this way.