You're gonna do this like,
Johnny Cash.
Pills, pills, and public drunkenness until
I love you.
More.
"June Carter, will you marry me?"
Well, I'll tell you Johnny, let's see you walk the line first,
Sober,
Say your A B ******* C's, darling.
Say them once and say them twice,
And say it when we're not being watched,
*******.

The people she adores,
She cuts them all into pieces,
Skewered,
Slid neatly into her open mouth.

She runs out of food,
Chews on you,
Hates your bones,
And how they cut her cheeks.
Your spilling blood slick,
Smudging her face,
Like lipstick.

The truth
Will set you free
But;
Not until it's done with you.

You will wake up with bruises
You made in your sleep.

(Good luck with those ****** sheets)

More often than not, I feel like a head case taking up space.
I mean, maybe it's less often than not? Who knows? I can't keep track of the hours, the days, the months, the friends, the loss, the love, and the dreams.
The dreams. I reach for them and feel them soak into my skin like smoke.
Are they there? Are they gone? Are they with me? Without?
Are you there?
...

I'm starting to wonder if I fall for every pair of eyes that go googly when locked with mine
I wonder how much I'm searching for a way out of not knowing and into heaven
which really, sounds a lot like certainty
I don't know how much my heart can bend under the weight of all the lives I hold in my delicate and numb fingertips before it breaks
I just want to be safe
I just want to be loved
I don't wanna be a trophy wife
I don't wanna be anything but happy

I feel the softly fluttering wings of my heart, like the singing birds of cold mornings where footsteps are as soft as ghostly snowfall. Your face buried in my shoulder, your breath turns my skin into warm velvet. Your hands bloom petals of warmth into mine where shaking stops and finds purpose in my arms.

I think "Okay, this is hopeless." just to find a new context to lie to myself in. I'll try to deny it for days, but it really becomes hours.

"Love is a neurochemical con-job," I think in intervals with your breaths. Your favorite song plays in the background, swept away into the wind and towards the moon smiling down on us saying, "I've seen this billions of times before. Just admit it."

I'll tell her to be quiet. I can't handle another heartbreak. She'll tell me this is different and I'll sigh out. Maybe. Just maybe.

I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through gods mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitos don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious god. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.

God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of me lot drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I see you in front of me. I think of that a lot.

Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.

December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.

She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first."  She wants to make blood soup out of you. She'll tell you to quit whining as she wrings your crooked spine. She wants all survivor, no guilt.

Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mobs a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.

We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?