It's the kind of puking that you don't recover from, when you're hunched over the trash can and you have enough time to side glance and admire your spine in the mirror you forgot to clean. * if I go over the lines one more time they'll blow out* I tattooed your abuse inside the medicine cabinet, where I go to meet Jesus every Tuesday night. When Friday seems to far away, and your fist so close. It's not just a memory this is a legacy. Trash can duets.