Slow suicide
On the porches of the houses on the hills.
In the cobblestoned sidewalks in the centre of everything,
The car frame almost melting in the mid day sun.  

The faces always look so sad,
And sometimes angry with me,
When I leave the coffee, barely touched behind,
And walk with my hands locked, leaving with someone I don't know.

Slow suicide
In the bathroom of a childhood friend,
In a painted cotton shirt.
Taking it off with the camera on me,
Held him captive in my body.

The faces look so pleased,
So in love with the moment, but not me.
When my thoughts turn demonic and ***** out the things I never thought I could say,
But there I went saying them.

Slow suicide
On the highway going 110,
In the radio, in the songs that sing me nearly to sleep.
The lights keep flashing but they don't bother me.

The faces don't show at all,
Except for the masked strangers in my head,
When I think away from the mess I've made in front of myself,
And try to disguise my impurities,
My strange fetish for fear,
But I try not to let it get cleaned up.