| Oh, Heaven, the next Queens-bound train is two stations away
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| From Tredestand, my white gown that curls around
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| the harbour fetal-style. |
| I never was a girly girl, forgive me!
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| From the very back of the church choir
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| I am standing, lone alto range.
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| Girl in Black.
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| The front row clasp their hands now,
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| they’re singing with devotion.
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| I separate from feeling, complex harmonic motion.
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| What’s wrong with their voices?
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| I sing like this when I’m at home.
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| I shut my mouth and ran away,
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| spot out that neoliberal, girly heart
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| that held no blood and made no beat,
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| just vibrated sweetly in the chest.
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| But I’m 33 now, that’s Jesus-age, and girl spaces come back to me.
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| I want to sing religiously, you know, airy, more than necessary,
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| climbing the ladders just to fall, uncontrollably to Heaven.
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| To, Heaven, I’m standing in a graveyard of girls.
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| Oh Tredestand, Oh, white gown,
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| the tombstones are so tall and hard,
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| I want to sit on them, put death inside my body, I want!
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| So much death! |
| I’m sorry. |
| I just want to feel…
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| So much death, a hole to nowhere |