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It happens every day.
In the long, headachy afternoon light,
bitter bickering,
a ripping blaze between those who loved past.
This is the vision tranquil of your average suburban nightmare.
Fighting over precious little,
precious little things that mean so much,
precious little things used as weapons.
It’s like a nagging headache that never leaves.
The dull everydayness masks exquisite pain.
It is always the same,
every time.
You played at being grown up,
You play at being grown up.
Now you can’t stop having the same argument and it pains the precious little things to hear it.
They hide at the sounds but you don’t stop.
Be a big girl, be a big boy.
It’s clear that precious little things don’t mean so much when you need to be right all the time....
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