He broke his neck thirty years ago I break mine more with each promise of keeping you in my life but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot, grieving for souls I will never know.
Some of his songs are so sad, like hearing the premature snap of his bones
Cannot help but resent how clever society is to glamorize the unglamorous, even I am aware the flowers upon graves are not just for aesthetics, but we are still always trying to cover terrible tragedies with beautiful things.
Am I just as guilty?
I cheat on you with him. His spirit through my headphones, hoped if I listen intently the narrative changes.
purple marks on your neck just that weekend you taught me what a hickey was and how they felt good
yoursβ declare ownership, not declarations of love.
You walk into art class, purple painted across your throat.
If love could save Ian, had I lived in the mid-seventies he may very well have lived forever and his throat painted by love, rather than the bruises of a noose.
The letters I wrote you were in vain, my mistake quoting those Smithsβ songs: Morrissey is an ******* and so are you.
I still am too scared to wonder how far I am willing to go to reap the benefits of sorrow.
"New Dawn Fades" tears into my heartstrings feeling responsible in the prevention of another suicide
I grapple onto what a savior complex was, your dead father the tracks on your arms made me cry but I thought it was stupid. It made me hate myself more why could I not learn to undo my drive to save anyone, but myself
The phone call where I broke up with you and you pretend to overdose on the speaker
One of us had to grow up, had to make it out alive And I love you again, every time Ian's ghost sings Isolation.
And I leave you there, sure, to end the album after the final song.
At sixteen an obsession with Unknown Pleasures and ******-addicted boys.