Paris

06/12/97

Paris was my fever dream 
trapped in a sunny iowa cage 
I pranced the edges of my parent's rooms, 
letting victor hugo cut into the wrists 
I was too afraid to slice, 
covering up the bruises I breathed in 
with the fake promise of barbara cartland's lace, 
but always it was Paris, 
there to dream for me when I began to despair of 
dreaming. 
so when I arrived at the Paris airport a criminal, 
my temperature slowly climbing the stairs and tunnels
I was pointed down, 
I became my own dream's nightmare.