The Lyrics

A Chapter by Jess

Yelawolf shares lyrics (among other things) with Eminem.

“You're the ink to my paper

Where my pen is to my pad

The moral, the very fiber

The whole substance to my rap.

You are my reason for being

The meaning of my existence

If it wasn't for you

I would never be able to spit this

As intense I do and the irony

Is you rely on me as much

as I rely on you to inspire me like you do.

You provide me the lighter fluid to fuel my fire

You're my entire supply

Gas, the match, the igniter.

The only way that I am able to stay so stable”

- “Crazy In Love”, Eminem

Water is one of the most beautiful things in the world. Some people only think water is beautiful if it’s clear or pure, but I don’t feel that way. Beauty to me isn’t about vanity, especially with water. The glares from the ripples capture the sun in its own painting. The folds of a wave squeeze into a foam that tickles your toes. Water is cold when it wants to be, and warm when it feels comfortable. If you think about it, humans don’t mold the water, the water molds humans. You ever wonder how there’s enough water in the world for all of our showers? Our water bottles? Our Brita filters? 70% of the world is water, but we never really think about how much that really is. I just want to sink into it and discover absolutely everything in it. Mermaids, jellyfish that change color, predators with ten rows of teeth- I want to see it all. For once I want to go in the water- any water- and curl my body into itself and sink to the bottom. I want to look up at the surface and see the world distorted by the water. I want to see the world from a mermaid’s perspective. What do they see? What do they feel? What do they think when they glide through the pounding sea? They probably have the same mindset as us: we’re used to it. We’ve grown accustomed to seeing everything we’re meant to see. A car driving by us doesn’t scare us. A tornado on T.V. is a common view. But to a mermaid, it’s shocking. I’m too old to be shocked by my jaded lifestyle. So, I want to drown. I want to be a part of something I’m unfamiliar with. I feel like the opposite of Ariel. She found her prince on land.

So maybe I’ll meet my prince again under the sea.

~*~*~

When people ask Marshall pretends that he doesn’t know where he got it from. Maybe he banged his arm into something. No, he probably got it from a sport accident. Actually, it was probably from wrestling with the girls. Wait, wait…he slept on it wrong. And maybe his friends believed it, but he knows that they suspect something. Ever since Blake they watch Marshall like a hawk.

Marshall knows where he got it from, though. And he knows what he did to deserve it. He didn’t make Michael breakfast in the morning. He’s the b***h; it’s his job. He’s a fat, ugly c**t who should cater to the man’s desires.

Marshall hasn’t met FeFe, but there were stories. He only though Michael’s violent behavior was caused by alcohol, but apparently not. Apparently all you have to do is say the wrong thing and Michael goes off. Apparently all you have to do is put a little too much sugar in his coffee and you get a beating. Apparently, tears aren’t enough to tame the beast.

Michael looks like James sometimes. It’s more in the eyes and the face, but James is there. Michael is sweet like James, tender like James, comforting like James. But when Michael twists his arm he looks like Blake. He’s nasty like Blake, hurtful like Blake, rude like Blake. It’s a dichotomy of the best and the worst, but he doesn’t know which he deserves more.

What even gives Michael the right to hurt him anyway? They just fucked, that’s it. Marshall’s not dating him or even in love with him. Why does Michael think he can do this?

And that’s just how fucked up it is for Marshall. He believes that getting hurt is inevitable, but only acceptable if he’s in a relationship. He can’t help it; it’s been like this Kim. She would spit at him, punch him, call him every word in the book, and they would f**k like rabbits later.

He and Michael had been unofficially together for a few days, and already the abuse was starting. You wouldn’t think Michael could be so violent and mean, but he was. He was sweet, but flawed. Marshall could deal with it, but God only knows how long.

“Marshall! Get your a*s over here!”

And so it begins.

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man. So why is my heart broke?

~*~*~

I hate it when the sun shines as it rains. It’s quite annoying and mean. It shouldn’t irritate me the way it does, but I can’t help. As I grow older, more and more things piss me off. I guess it’s a pretty big deal to me though, having the sun out when it rains. Sure the sun is always there, lurking behind the shadows and dark clouds, bathing behind the rain water, but it’s hidden away. A sun shower just defies the laws of nature, it seems. And I guess I hate that. Good and bad should never mix, but sometimes it does. That’s one of the things I hate about nature: it does whatever it wants. That could also be one of the reasons why I love it. I’ve never conformed to anything anyone has made official. If someone went one way, I went the other. And I guess I’m a little jealous, because now nature seems to be cracking my code. Me, I seem to be falling out of my promises nowadays. Sometimes I’m too lazy to do things my own way. I feel too old. But if you look at a tree, hundreds of years old in your backyard during a shower, it sways and moves with the wind. Sometimes it falls down, and sometimes it prays in thanks for another day. I feel like that now, just getting by and praying thanks for another day. But what am I truly living for? Why am I still here? With every strike of lightening in my life I shiver and move on. But what if that strike hits me hard, will I fall? I guess it’s good that nature has the good and the bad mixing sometimes, because it’s like life. And if you think about it, after the storm passes, the flowers bloom, the muck is cleaned, everything is new. Maybe I need this pain in order to feel the healing. Maybe Michael is the lightning, but I’m an old tree. Or maybe he’s the storm, giving me nourishment after a long drought. I guess I like to believe that he is the sun, but he’s not.

You are the sun, James. And I need you to guide me through the rain.

~*~*~

“You cook a lot?” Michael asks, a piece of chicken rolling around in his mouth. Marshall sits across from him in his home, crossing his fingers behind his back and clenching his teeth. A piece of meat hangs on his fork in mid-air, and he speaks.

“Not really,” he replies quietly. Michael’s expression is very impassive, and that makes Marshall even more nervous. It’s so silent and he feels his world closing in on him- afraid in his own home, by a man who supposedly loves him. Michael swallows, and Marshall hears it. He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to scream, but he stays so quiet that God can’t hear him.

“It’s good,” Michael says with a rasp. Marshall wants to breathe a sigh of relief. But once again he stays quiet.

“Thank you,” he breathes a moment later. He sees this as a permission to continue eating, but he’s careful to chew quietly. He doesn’t look at Michael.

“You look nice,” Michael says in his southern twang. It strikes a chord with Marshall- not necessarily the compliment but the sound. It’s so foreign to him now, lost in the translation of the past that he could cry. Michael has always been fucked up, but at least he was a gentler soul just a few years ago. He wants that Michael; the opposite in the way he prefers the way he is now to how he was in the past. The problem with Michael now and the problem with himself in the beginning of his career is that they both don’t give a f**k.

“Thank you,” Marshall says with a smile. All of Marshall’s woes are clipped with Michael’s scissor, and the younger man reaches over and puts Marshall’s hand in his- the left. He stares at where their hands are joined, wanting to destroy the bond like splitting an atom: impossible. He looks back up into Michael’s eyes, clear green crystals like a soft meadow: the eyes of the young man from years ago. They’re kind and tender.

Michael shifts his fingers to rub along Marshall’s wounded wrist.

“I need to eat with this hand,” he says dryly. The darkness returns in Michael’s eyes and he leans back in his chair, staring at Marshall with malice.

Cutting into another piece of dry chicken, he hopes he’s giving Michael the exact same look.

I like your ultra-violent swing, I like the way you treat me mean. You turn my mood from black to blue.

~*~*~

The Slaughterhouse album is going okay. It’s not as enjoyable without James popping in every few hours with mail and a bowl of fruit, but he’s managed. All members of Slaughterhouse met James at least once, so the damage wasn’t as tough on them. Marshall didn’t say much though, shocking the group into panic due to Marshall’s lack of emotion. He didn’t smile- or at least hide it- after a classic Ortiz joke or chuckle after a riveting Crooked I story. They all just assume it’s because of James’ passing, but there’s a light blue shining under his left eye that says otherwise. They don’t say a word.

“Marsh, you wanna do some vocals on this?” Royce asks, his hands shaking. Everyone looks at their boss, who’s shivering in 70 degree weather. He knows they can see, knows they can tell. You don’t just wear long sleeves during late-spring and expect to get away with it.

“Uh-h,” he starts, stuttering. He swallows over a knot in his throat and blinks several times. “Sure…” Although, he doesn’t even know what song they’re doing and doesn’t even want to know. He wants to go- not home- far away and sleep forever. Nightmare-less sleeping too.

“You okay?” Joey asks, squinting his eyes and knowing that he’s certainly not okay. Marshall looks at him, pleading in his eyes and still shivering.

“Yes,” he whispers. Quiet hangs in the air for a moment, and Marshall shoots out of his chair violently, going to the booth and slamming the door behind him.

“A’ight,” Royce says, blinking and confused. He pulls his chair up to the booth and starts the beat, the others leaning back in their chairs and staring at the floor- a maroon as thick as blood with the stitching still perfect after years of wear. “Ya got a sheet in fron’ o’ ya?” Royce asks, his gaze hidden behind sunglasses so expensive that he prays his eyes are invisible. His stomach sinks. This isn’t the Marshall he knows.

Headphones in his ears, he’s frazzled for a moment and trying to process a question that no longer exists in his memory. He swallows again, feeling like he wants to throw up.

“So, wh-what am I readin’?” he asks, confused and tired. Crooked looks at Royce, worried, and Royce mimics the gaze.

“The track ‘Asylum’, Marsh,” Royce guides, putting up the sound. His stomach sinks again and he waits for Marshall to start.

He sings low and uncomfortable, stuttering over each word. The sentences don’t even look like English anymore to him, just black shapes on a page.

“Em, relax. Come on,” Joey says into the mic, scaring Marshall out of his wits. He starts crying a bit, his lip quivering, and Royce gets quite worried.

“Em-“

“NO!” he screams in the booth and he rips off his headphones, clutching the sides of his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!” he cries, sinking to his knees and feeling every bruise pounding with the beat of his heart, a heart that beats with Michael’s pulse.

“Marshall! Oh my God…” Royce rattles off quickly, rushing to the booth and cradling his friend. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“I can’t keep actin’ like everythang’s okay…”

He feels James squeezing his heart, and remembers that he hasn’t left.

~*~*~

I don’t wear many rings, but I still have Hailie’s. It’s oddly shaped, but so beautiful. And for some reason, every time I find a table that has a broken leg or is off center, I roll that ring like a barrel down a hill. I watch it glide across the wood (or even glass) in a pristine line, feeling its fear when it nearly falls to its death at the end of the table. But just before its life flashes before its eyes, I open my hands and catch it. I repeat this over and over again, start to finish, life to death, beginning to end, over and over. It’s so sad because that feels like me. I’m constantly being pushed to the edge after extreme bouts of happiness, then being led back into a false sense of security only to be brought back to worry and fear. I’ve lived like that for so long, everyone around me making my decisions and effecting what I do and what I don’t. Some people don’t want me to do one thing because they don’t like how I do it. So they push me back to the beginning. Start over. Reverse. Change. And every day in life I do the same thing to my ring- a ring made by my own child. Maybe I’m such a lenient father because I don’t want my kids to go through what I do every day. So I get my kicks from abusing that ring.

That ring isn’t even a person. That ring doesn’t care. Yet I still feel sad.

I guess the end is reality, and the beginning is fantasy. Maybe I’m just in the middle, being pulled both ways.

Only time will tell when I fall.

~*~*~

“It’s late.”

Michael is a little too close for comfort. Marshall had a rough day and all he wants to do is sleep.

“’Snot that late,” Michael encourages, biting Marshall’s ear from behind and cradling his stomach. They hadn’t made love in a while and Michael needs to release some tension. Marshall sighs, but Michael continues to kiss down his neck, sucking at his clavicle and smiling into his skin.

Usually people’s skin taste salty and dull, but Marshall’s skin was always sweet and refined. Like after you drink a cup of coffee and the sugar residue relaxes on your tongue for a while. Marshall is so unique and beautiful, but he keeps on running away.

“Michael…” he sighs, trying to sound annoyed but instead sounding quite pleased. His neck is one of his spots and Michael always seems to hit it unwittingly.

“C’mon, love,” he presses. Finally, after much internal debate, Marshall sinks under the covers. He figures a nice blow job will get the man to shut up.

Michael gets the hint and lies on his back, smiling evilly and relaxing himself. Marshall, with his vision distorted by the darkness underneath the sheets, goes to work. He suckles at the head for a bit, licking around and encouraging moans from the man. He takes a third of the length in his mouth, closing his eyes as if to picture something else.

He should definitely not be thinking about James right now, but he is. He only got to blow James once, and it was a struggle-some experience. James was good practice for the one he’s swallowing now. He moans low in his throat and takes it half-way, wrapping his hand around the base.

“Ohhh,” Michael sighs. He didn’t know Marshall was so talented in this area. When Marshall pushes Michael down his throat to the root of his dick he screams.

Marshall has always loved the feeling of a c**k deep in his throat; the pressure gave him an astounding satisfaction that he craved every time he went down on someone. Michael is no different, but there’s more flesh for him to swallow. He flexes his glands and glides his hands over Michael’s stomach, bobbing his head up and down on the swollen organ. For the sake of Michael’s sanity, he only squeezes the man’s balls in his hand rather than putting them anywhere near his mouth.

“Jesus…” Michael moans. One more deep stroke down Marshall’s throat and Michael explodes, digging his nails into Marshall’s skull. Silently Marshall swallows everything and goes back to fresh condensed air above the covers.

“Thank you, baby,” Michael sighs, wrapping his body over Marshall’s and kissing his neck again. Marshall closes his eyes with no reply and prays for sleep.

He hopes Michael didn’t notice he wasn’t hard.

~*~*~

Sex isn’t a comfortable thing for me. I hate my body and I hate being exposed, but I definitely love the pleasure. If people could have sex with their clothes on then everything would be better for me. I used to think that I had a pretty decent body but old age has really fucked me up mentally. For the “Recovery” album shoot, I cried in my dressing room for 45 minutes before the shirtless photo. For XXL they had to give me a raise that I didn’t want because I turned down their offer for a shirtless photo. I never eat carbs or unhealthy things. I cringe at the thought of potato chips and my heart raises before I take my clothes off for a shower. That’s why I couldn’t believe that you loved my body and wanted it every second of the day. For a short period of time, you made me more confident in myself. That’s why when Michael and I make love I think of you. I think of the way you held me, the way you kissed every part of my body, the sweet nothings you sighed in my ear. God, I fell so in love with you after every time. It was never just another f**k for you; you always aimed for me to feel special. I don’t feel that way with Michael. Sometimes I even feel like a science experiment. Like he’s testing out the male anatomy to see if he like it or not. He points out indirectly all of the things I hate about myself. He grabs my thighs in his meaty hands. He presses his fingers into my chest. He wraps his arms around my waist. I hate it. But the sex feels amazing in the end. Just the sex.

I like him, but I hate him…all for the wrong reasons.

I love you, for the right ones.

I could never hate you.

~*~*~

Marshall’s lip is swollen. He feels blood running down the side of his face. He can’t see through his right eye. His stomach hurts. The tiles are a dingy white. He feels his elbow crack on the service. He’s whimpering like a child.

D’Angelo is staring at him with an angry gaze, high up above the honkey and kicking him in the ribs like a soccer ball.

Marshall can only gasp and cough, silently praying that it ends and the principal will walk in soon. His head hurts. He prays that it’s a dream, a flashback, but it’s not.

D’Angelo is Michael. The school bathroom is his half-bath. There is no principal, only God and his mysterious schemes.

One more kick and it’s over.

“F****n’ b***h…” Michael grunts and footsteps lead him to a hallway with faint shadows of a path. Marshall is afraid to look up, afraid to speak, afraid that he’ll come back, afraid that his kids will hear.

His body disagrees with him and he climbs to the rim of the toilet bowl, barely making it and regurgitating a dinner that displeased Michael.

He wants to say, “I hate you,” but he figures repeating it in his mind will be enough for God to hear.

I hate you…I swear to God I hate you. Oh my God I love you.

~*~*~

Marshall giggles like a little boy when he hears his name in “Be the One” and “Howdy”. It makes him feel…important. Loved. It was the first sign of admiration that he got from Michael. It was like every night, even if the moon wasn’t full, he changed or morphed into a beast of the night.

What’s funny is that wolves are actually quite tame and organized, but if something goes wrong in the food supply or environment, they go insane.

Maybe Marshall was the food supply, and it all just depended on how he acted.

But lyricism is one way in which an artist keeps tame. Like a catharsis for a mentally ill patient, soft breezes glide through each phrase and angry note, penetrating the sorrow and absorbing it to create light melodies.

“Big Nutz” comes on and Marshall smiles, thinking about the olden days where shock value was guaranteed in Hip Hop. “White Boy S**t” makes him laugh, thinking about how far Hip Hop has come racially. But then “F**k Me” comes on and he listens carefully.

He originally thought it would be a classic sex-filled song in accordance to the title. However, the first few notes said differently in their tonality.

I don’t know why you treat me just like a scumbag…

Marshall almost immediately thinks it’s about him. He wishes there was a lyric sheet so he could read ahead, but he sticks to just listening like a buzzard over an exhausted prey.

Every change of vocals sends a spike to his chest. Every angry mantra hurts his heart. Every time he says “lady” he wants to kill him.

Why can’t you see that I’m not shady?

He gets tears in his eyes and turns off the record, throwing everything in his circle at the walls; pencils, CDs, his Diet Coke, everything. He wants it all to go away. He wants it all to be as mangled and broken as he is. But they can’t feel a thing.

And as he sniffles and the soda dries on the wall, he realizes that he loves Michael so much that he hates him.

So maybe you need somebody who doesn’t believe in dreams, or maybe you hate yourself as much as I hate me

~*~*~

Marshall is a very interesting character. He’s hard to read but his mystery makes me love him even more. He’s very guarded and uncomfortable around me, and all I want to do is make him fall in love with me. He’s so beautiful and timid, yet for some reason he seems to curl up inside himself when I’m around. Am I a bad person? Am I the reason he doesn’t want to take his clothes? Clothes have always been like a second skin to me. I can tell a story with them with vibrant colors and patterns, like gray and black. He swims in his clothes too, lost in a sea of doubt and no confidence. I want him to embrace who he is on the inside: witty, charming, sweet, emotional. He possesses so many qualities that the average Eminem fan would be surprised to see. I wish they could see that part of him; the innocent part. He’s not a bad guy, but I guess I am. I’m definitely the bad guy. I’m the bad guy because he feels uncomfortable to be who he is with me around. It’s been a couple of months since our first time, and at some point I’m going to make him feel special. I’m going to make him happy. I’m going to be a good boyfriend for him.

As soon as the bruises heal, I’ll show him I love him.

~*~*~

He hit me again after I heard the song. I just can’t take the pain anymore.

I’m learning how to be a better poker player.

“But if I catch you on the street with another man holdin’ his hand

Imma f**k him up

I ain’t never had nobody like you

I don’t know what to do with myself

I’m feelin’ maybe I should give it up

But I can’t, I’m so in love with you that I can’t see further than right now

And right now I need to fill my cup

Drink my pain away again and wake up to needin’ you