Do we want to make it out of this alive?
Was that ever the plan? –
When we called each other beautiful,
and our friends laughed
because we were perfect for each other
but I wasn’t made for you.

Do you want me to live through this?
Even after all of this,
being read, being spoken,
I do not understand the role I seem to play.

Can you shed some light on my purpose?
Right now, it seems,
I’m only good to tell you stories
from another girl
who doesn’t hold a knife to her hair
in the drunken night-time.

Is there still something to cut off?
Look at me, asking you,
shouting up to the pedestal
I built, myself.
What would you like for breakfast?
What sacrifice would you like today?
Don’t say ‘nothing’;
it seems I am only good
to cook you blood-pudding
and pretend that I am talking
to someone singular.

Will you take another hit? –
Or is this one all mine?
It’s another Tuesday afternoon,
again, and we’re in the
limelight milk-light
and you’re somehow every girl
I’ve ever loved
but I don’t want to kiss you
because you, and she, and I
are not as real as the stories
I tell.