I would drag your broken body from a heap of ruin and pull it close to mine.
I would sit with you while we watched the fireworks of the undoing light the sky.
I would weep with you the tears that came with every broken bone in your body.
And together we would wait.
Wait for that God neither one of us believed in.
To pick us up by the side of this pile of rubble,
we used to call the world we knew.

Welcome yourself into a brand new world,
rife with neologisms,
teeming with abject complacency.
where all the shiny cars get off on your exit,
assigned parking spaces before them and all the gifts of heaven behind.
My fellow, he lives in a pea-coat some 3,000 miles from here.
He smokes Cuban and knows a great deal of city streets I know not a suit of.
We've yet to meet,
but he says great things about you through the mail.
feverish as those fingers may be,
chasing wildly after some long legged bottle.
The girls become mirages,
and the ground becomes the cold hands of a dead friend.
mountaineering mole-hill after mole-hill until,
dry mouthed and beaten,
he makes his way in this-away direction.
all broken and ill-willed as fate intended,
Twinkle Town's got places for even the most dejected of us.

the glory days of forever ago,
we drug ourselves into thinking that this was a good idea.
but of course,
as luck would have it,
i slipped through the cracks in the gene-pool that would have called me an addict.
life is good and all is quiet on whatever front i'm at,
at the moment.
life swirls on.
and so does the dust in my eyes.
big surprise, i'm still here,
mumbling indecency after indecency.
sip after sip,
soothsayers make mention of my doom,
in bubbles and in glory.

In starting off, let me just say:
I don't love you because you are a beauty I can hardly touch with my finger tips.
I don't feel the urge to contain your body by caressing those perfect molded edges.
I love you because you are greater than the flesh that contains you.
You have this ability to transcend the constraints placed on by matter.
You are almost terrifyingly free from those chains.
I cannot measure you.
I cannot contain you.
And you of your own accord kiss my lips and accept that I am merely that of flesh.
Finite and calculable.
Flawed and visible to the naked eye.

Cold limbs can't tremble in ecstasy.
They cannot hold the backs or clasp the body of anyone.
I am but lifeless flesh that moves only by the assistance of others;
a heavy marionette with too weak strings-
dragging along the bottom of a well of sin.
(Simple gestures as music plays in through the windows)
I don't know where the winds breathe and simmer in the open spaces between you and me.
If you could be anything,
I would love to play you like a piano.
You would lie in front of me, naked,
with all the princely dignity of a drifter from back east.
If ugly is pretty,
let me breathe into you the sickness that trembles somewhere deeper than my flesh,
seething beyond my decency.
In sickness and in health,
I rather prefer the poison in your veins as a pulse in tandem with mine.
I wish to scratch against you like bows against strings.
maybe not to become some beautiful piece written by some composer of utmost pretentiousness,
but possibly just one note and then another-
back and forth through the evening-
as would the whistling of trees outside.

If I'm going to survive the night, I'm going to do it with grace.
No more head tilted slightly resting on ***** bar tables.
No more pirouettes into the sidewalk.
No more fingers ****** into the air as a universal sign for more.
Give me more than this.

If I'm going to survive the night, I'd like very much to do it with class.
No more slurred speech.
No more mangled sentences.
No more off-tune renditions of 'Under Pressure' while I try desperately to keep from falling under the table.

If I'm going to survive the night,
(though at this point it seems unlikely)
I will not tout my youth in front of older strangers,
waiving it in the air like a gun as if to say,
'Who wants any?'

If I survive the night, I will have survived it with my dignity.

That's why I'm so desperate to die.

If someone's going to write me a novel I think we should title it 'Girl Crashes Into Windshield'
Then everyone would be intrigued by the violence of the whole thing.
Then maybe, also, you can use that old photo of me as a reference point.
With a dramatic asterisk next to it that says before.

That will get 'em going.

The first line would be something like, "Death is such an ugly word."
Then we could detail the effects of having your face smashed in at 70 miles per hour.
Make some remarks in scientific terms about trajectory and blunt force.
Get some of those good 'like an egg on a sidewalk' analogies too.
End it with 'had she only stepped into the street two seconds later'.

Now we're gettin' somewhere.

The whispers of bestseller start to breed in the aisles of Barnes and Nobles' everywhere.

Because everyone loves a good car crash.