I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)
These burdens-- this burden-- I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)
I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a damn thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.
I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)
My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional masturbation, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a junkie for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every damn day)
I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a whore doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my breasts are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep shit from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.
(you're kinda gross, you know.)