Cinderblocks Lyrics

We're tying cinder blocks to our hungry incisors'; stifling our anxious bones with mid morning thunderstorms. I'm growing out my hair until I can hide within the branches, until I can hide like a department store vagrant behind curtains of summer dresses or winter coats. And when I'm found by stern fingers around my tiny wrist, I'll nail wooden planks to my face with a charming grin and perfect teeth and I'll grow cacti from my tongue so I can claim to speak something sharp. There are roots, and there are bathroom tiles but I can't spread my fingers wide enough to connect either so, if it's okay, I'll mail you post cards from my swollen tonsils, from my ravaged throat. They say “Please, don't make fun of my handwriting.” They'll say “Everything inside of me is wooden and wet and falling into ruin.” They'll say “Sometimes, having somebody's tongue in my mouth makes me think of slugs and that's probably why I'm such an awful kisser.”
Or “Every gorgeous skyline horizon is just a bloated belly touching down between our towns.”
The backside of an old farmhouse says I want to see the way you perch between the door frame of a bedroom, a whisper beneath your lips that can't glide on these wings riddled with caterpillar bites past our churning ceiling fan, the halo caging the moon begs to confuse our fingers, every vintage carousel twists my tongue, brings the blood to my face, every beach front property says “darling, given the chance I'd kiss you something fierce with perhaps a bit too much slug, but I promise I'd do it out of love.”
There's a cabin somewhere, with sunlight painting the floor between the cracks. There are hungry dogs in the closets, I've painted broken night lights in the hallway, a surgeon above your bed, the sunlight catches lazy birds sleeping on your window sill, their agitated dreams cooling like an overbaked pie. There are dozens of these postcards between the floorboards. Close your eyes and follow me home.