In all actuality, it isn't a sad song by design. Under any other circumstances, the chorus could make you smile. Sometimes I think of the song writer sitting on some abandoned beach, Sea breeze stained notebook leaves resting in the sand, Guitar across her lap. Her meal ticket. How could she have known. I like to pretend that if she knew what happened to me, She would unwrite the song. I like to pretend that unwriting the song would unwrite that night. When I sit for too long, When I fall asleep on my arm, I feel the chords cross stitched into my wrists. The knotted guitar strings staking me into the ground, My skirt, a circus tent. The recording skips as they brake, Piling out of a skate board size volks wagon, Tripping over eachother, juggling shot glasses that I catch on my tongue. The crowd roars with laughter as they chase each other. Weaving between my knees, They disappear between my legs, Into the clowns den. A slap stick heist. My vulnerability, a punchline. They prance out holding family heirlooms, paintings friendship bracelets, over due library books, ducking around imaginary corners on stage left, Honking eachothers' red noses, but trying not to wake me. The tall one knocks over a gas can as the short one lights a cigarette. One jumps into the other's arms as they watch me burn the ground, A tapped keg, a robbed vault, a foreclosed fortress. End scene.