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
yours’ 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 Smiths’
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.
