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Dear Fool,
You didn’t realize it when you left her, but you were walking away from a goddess. You treated her like shit. You should have worshipped her, built her up. But you tore her down. You fuck with her, you fuck with me.
You couldn’t handle her fame. You couldn’t handle seeing her on stage for all the world to see. You couldn’t understand how it was that she was content to sing her secrets into a microphone rather than to sigh them into your ear. You wanted her quiet and anonymous. But you didn’t realize that by trying to cut out her music, you were cutting out a piece of her heart. Florence isn’t Florence without the stage, the audience. She’s a born performer. It’s what she lives for.
Now you have the nerve to go after her again. Well it’s too late. You left the show, and you aren’t getting back in. She’s up where she belongs, and I’m right there with her. I always will be.
You ripped her to pieces with your words, and then you let her walk away. Is that how you liked her, crying in the rain? I picked her up and put her back together while you sat back and thought it over. Well I have good news: you have all the time in the world to think about it now.
I heard you tell her “the machine” was a fucked up concept. Well I think you’re a fucked up concept.
You’re blind. But I’m glad. Because now she can be with someone who truly loves her, someone who will worship and cherish her the way she’s always deserved. Me.
- The Machine