mis demonios parecen cicatrices
y el sabor como el suicidio

painted faces
scarred skin
weary arms and quivering legs
you asked for an army
and this is what you got
walking corpses with empty eyes
that you'll scoop out with plastic spoons
singing the songs of our breathren
in abused voices and sore throats
selling our bodies for boys in other countries
doing it all in the name of love
congratulations
you created us
now let us welcome you
to our black parade

these words
make me sick

I've found that the saddest people are the most eloquent poets
so it's okay that your phrases don't flow quite right
and that you use words that don't really fit
because the day your childish scrawl matures
will be the day I know you're gone

hold the silver over a flame
turn it, twist it
let the metal soften
mold it, bend it
dull the sharp prongs
blend away the etching
and the nicks and scratches
from years of abuse
with your rough fingers
press it's extremities together
to fill in the gaps
between it's teeth
make it slick
make it shine
replace it's maker's signature
with yours

now, stand back
look at what you've done
forks are just spoons
without the holes
but when you went to fill them in
you forgot that
there wasn't enough material
for them to patch over smoothly
so in your hands
you hold the mangled remains
of a broken masterpiece
that you thought you could fix
but forgot
you didn't know how

you said you were the man
who fell in love with a star
and you couldn't understand how
a mere mortal
could fall in love with something so far away

maybe I am a star
but stars have no substance
I am nothing but chemicals
so big, so bright
so distant, so empty

here I am, adrift in orbit
of a black hole
of illness and self destruction
dark, haunting
waiting to **** me in

you wonder how insignificant you must be
to all of us above
but I think you look quite
enormous
and it makes me feel small

don't come closer, dear
or you'll burn
and if you wait long enough
maybe it'll be time for me
to burn up, too

my eyes are shut tight
tears locked inside by a little green pill
meant to suppress the "bad thoughts"
I haven't thrown up in ten years
the contents of my stomach churn, unable to be free
nausea, induced by your secrets

I want to let them out
my contraband emotions
but I cannot
they'll ravage my insides
growing, a cancer
until they steal the last breath
from my chapped lips

for now I'll escape to the shower
with water burning the skin off my back
clean my body with broken nails
scrub myself raw
reopen old wounds
with a fluffy pink loofah

and when the water runs cold
I'll turn it off
lie on the floor of the tub
let the cold tile rattle my teeth
and I'll stay there in silence
until the faucet stops dripping