Guess I’ll never know what I meant to you
This year’s been lonely but at least it’s through
I’ll write a letter to my former self
Dear sad ghost, why’d you put your heart on the shelf?
I got this far past my captivity only to disappear
Capturing the moments with a scratched mirror
Impropriety plucks my nerves like piano strings
But the song turns out to be of drunken kerosene
I didn’t need another affliction to weigh my abyss
Missing out in stilted fabrications and vixen trysts
The apparition pilfers me on a diamond glass heist
Mine vicarious propinquity was nothing but ire lies.
You know that, I’m a nightmare and I’m going crazy
You’re going nowhere so
I’m taking you with me (out of line)
This is what you get when you fuck with a classic roundabout
But it just might be me out of line…
Paying for intense fire that presents itself in metaphor
This is what you deserve for putting it out
Screaming fucking hell into a payphone call to heaven
Until the plastic receiver melts your mouth
Conflagrating under pyres that consent your affliction
That’s what you get for falling in addiction
Sending letters to dear agony signed in your own blood
Hoping for a reply, but it never reaches God.
These pills are contumelious and tasteless. I can sense the verbatim in each weighted gold, the incorrigible condition of convalescing, the asinine arrogance of it all that flows ever so hotly and heavily, like boiling lead poured down my veins, as I swallow quickly before the unpleasant bitter taste invades my tongue, hard tablets travelling down my throat imperceptibly. It somehow catches midpoint and I cough tentatively, droplets of rusty starched blood staining my silk white gloves. But, I think, it’s only or three drops and a dash of wasted chloride, so never mind that. Grimacing, my eyes narrow into thin slits at the minuscule writing on the sterile label, and I read the dictated instructions ever so carefully—like it even mattered in the slightest—as I shook more of the little pink chalky medical sedition out of its orange prescription bottles, the container vivid and gruesomely bright, tangerine teeth smiling at me as if to say “Your hair is falling out, your organs and viscera are liquefying at an alarming rate that you might as well shit it out, you’ve got a terminal ailment and necrosis is your best friend, it’s good, everything’s okay!”. It continues jeering and mocking and pointing fingers against me silently while simultaneously continuing its purpose of surreptitiously patching and stitching up internally what’s already disintegrated into a causeless irreparable degeneration. I glance at the acerbic prescription bottle, then back at the cherry cheeked cherubic lifesavers resting taciturn in my hand. Letting my irrational dignity get the best of me and sighing in a ludicrous extravagance, I take a hesitant drink of water, room temperature and straight from the tap, and throw the snickering pills away resolutely. They fall somewhere on the pristine linoleum floor with a protesting clatter, indignant and still stabbing invisible excoriations behind my back. I don’t care. This affluent injury, this affirmative debilitation, this coldhearted affliction is futile, I may as well be swallowing coins for all the good that it’s done me. It’s nothing but a feel-good propaganda that manages to make me feel worse; I may as well be choking on my own false hope.