The clay model living in my brain
watches water crawl the windowpane,
Complains about the heat and humidity of the attic apartment,
asks me to fix the broken oscillating fan she
got from a boy who loved her less than Japan,
But you know I can’t do that –
This little homunculus knows I can’t do that,
I can’t fix a fan, I
can’t fix anything at all.
She’s got a smile like yours, but a little less,
Scrapes clay into heads, always makes a mess,
And every tan face she sculpts, they’re all screaming.
But her smile’s not quite yours, and I can’t help but think
There’s a meaning
hidden somewhere in this room and I
I need a drink, need to
Set my brain on fire,
Try to burn your memories to a cinder
but I know that just makes them harder.