I keep killing for you, darling,
and it seems I can't stop.
We stand here in the bone-dry night
with the blood at our feet shining like stained glass, broken on the concrete.
You offered me a hand to hold, silly sentiment.
I pull the knife from your shoulder.
And when the wind blows dust into your wound, I turn my back to it.
I am your shield,
a listless child in a fucked up world, but Charlie,
I would never lace your fingers in mine.
I would take a goddamn bullet to the brain, but I can't let you hurt me.
Your blood is sharp, my darling love, it's torture
and you would love nothing more than to bleed in my mouth, like razors on my lips.
We're a skipping record, Charlie.
Every morning it's the rosary on tv,
it's the smell of burnt toast and burnt hair.
We're a tragedy, but unwritten.
An unwanted Shakespeare where Benvolio and Mercutio kill each other.
I'm made aware of lightning and pen knives whenever I look in your eyes.
Stop stalling, Charlie.
You're making excuses, but you need to make time.
I'm killing for you.
My hands are covered in your blood and the stains won't come clean.
I'm racing trains, seeing who crashes first.
And it's me, just so you know,
with a pistol in my hand.
My teeth are laying in the dirt,
making mud of the blood that drips from the cheap shots they got in.
When you kiss me, which you never do, I lose more teeth.
You're hard with your lips, punching like a man in a bar fight.
Give me whiskey.
Give me stains of dusty clay.
Even with my eyes closed you manage to pry my eyeballs out.
Your love is a beating, Charlie.
It's like hate, even though I know that you don't.
I wouldn't know because now it's my blood on the concrete,
and it's your knife aching between my ribs.
It's mercy, Charlie,
but I can't bring myself to thank you.