be a fickle fun
may try to run
but when all
is said and done,
you are still
the only one.
be a fickle fun
may try to run
but when all
is said and done,
you are still
the only one.
For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.
Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.
There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.
How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.
I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.
For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.
I gots a lot to learn
But I learn a lot, I’m not concerned
You’ve got a lot of burns
From all this pessimism you said
Regrets adamant, remorseful shame sternly pressing at the back of my throat
If I’ve held on to my beliefs tighter, would that make it harder for faith to let go?
I’m attempting to beat down the monstrous odds with a bantam plastic sword
And disregarding the tongues they have cut away so that I can get the last word
I took their plans, drawn and carefully-laid out, and I spilled my blood all over
Until my moral compass and the road to vices are practically indistinguishable
This is a cosmic sitcom, not blatant sanctity that can be written on plain paper
I’m fucked for simply thinking I have a motivation that is never extinguishable
Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, ask for blessings but receive a curse
Desperate for a reckoning, delirious over second chances, drinking against thirst
In the atrocity of life’s reliquary, I’m only wishing to find any smidgen of cohesion
But all the platitudes of confidence and trust were nothing but blank superstitions.
Fake apologies (Fake apologies)
Can I just call it quits, I can’t take all of this
Fighting all of me (Fighting all of me)
I want a second chance, but I’m so broken…
why do i constantly
feel the need to fuck up?
even though the same
mistakes me always cost me
a blood excavation
is it because i just want
to find excuses to just keep
on relapsing? am i really
that messed in the head,
that i would need pain justified
to convince myself that i’ll
fucking need more of it?
for once, i wish i wasn’t capable
of writing until i’m as empty
as my pen and as indecipherable
as the paper i tore to shreds
i’m so sick and disgusted
of how i badly run my system
and really, the only option
is for the gears to stop working
or better still, fix what i can
with a quicker pharmacy visit
and offset an overdosed withdrawal
i just want to muffle it all
can’t i be allowed even that, at least?
can i just no longer feel?
Here’s your new drug, shoot it in the left eye
Feel it on the right side, no it’s not love
Though it sets up shop behind your ribcage
Building blood clots and black holes
Like using an axe to pull a sliver from your skin…
Unresponsive desolation, paralysed in blood and cement
Reactions set to explode, evidences execution half-meant
Excerpts of a circumvented verse, misguided boundaries
Pulses worn, reciting reasons for the living in cemeteries
Incompatible, undesirable, infiltrate my cataclysmic rain
Under issued influences, heroin and butane shot for pain
Crashing manifestos, an intervention set to fucking burn
There’s no point to reflect if there’s nothing to be learned
Covenant of injuries, gregarious dimensions disembodied
Bedraggled carcass averting headlights, a contingency bid
Cold condescension will only covet unconsented concerns
Wasted like a question mark, duplicated hemispheres torn
Bullets traded for breathing soldiers, a parasitic symphony
Beneath the facade of a tranquil noir, an indelible calamity
Again the fugitives sink in violent vices, composed in ashes
My perverse altercation is but an alibi under my rotted flesh.
And they say this is medicine
An overdose of oxygen
A severed head as sedative
To be at peace would be a sin
And surely un-american
I’m breaking down…
Victim of a system
Voices of a broken
Values falling then
Volume invalid ten
Violation or vulture
Valleys on ventures
Vessel of vagabonds
Volition valium land
Vindication, lo again
Verses veiled spoken.
Yeah, you don’t know my mind
You don’t know my kind
Dark necessities are part of my design
Tell the world that I’m falling from the sky…
I sign the papers to my own death knell
As I gladly submit to your anathemic spell
A personal, selfish, rotten, sick addiction
Adding another rusty nail to my crucifixion
The darkest of my clandestine necessities
Lighting me up inside like wild incendiaries
Got me so high until I refuse thusly to stop
So make me fly again and fill up my cup
Swirling with the sweetest soul’s spirits
Add another toxic scarlet potion and stir it
Perfume scents, the most dizzying kind
Further deepen the haze that is my mind
Soliloquies and bullets spill from my mouth
Confessions told, kneeling in a roundabout
Vices, virtues, now they all look the same
Salvation, sinning, so remember my name
I know the bad side effects, consequences
I have knowledge of this wrongful mess
But at this point I’m lost, gone too far under
To even stop to care about it now and wonder.
Do you want this love of mine
The darkness helps to sort the shine
Do you want it, do you want it now?…