Twelve Twenty-Four
© Copyright 2003 - Recherché Inamorato Productions

Ice cubed droplets drench black dust,
Lines of a sole press against the lust.
Choice to turn rust to the left of dirt,
The warmth soon eases all of the hurt.
Searching through junkyards for the one,
Lost for all eternity, everything comes undone.
Press an index down to help make it pretty,
Utter foreign tongues sounding so witty.
Screams of agony where I was before now,
Stockings are torn but I wear them anyhow.
Line my lids with that cheap black liquid,
Called by others a weird gothic freak kid.
Reaching for the top to take the angel home,
Choking myself to death on cream flavored foam.
Salvaged all night by the fire just for you,
Eighty dollars in the mail asking me what to do.
Inside my mind I knew it would arrive today,
Nothing in the box and now I waste away.
Cries from behind and pain down below,
Sleeping awake wondering where to go.
Heavy and light with delicate and bright,
Decorate now and watch it last all night.

"Do you think Jade's thirsty?"
-Bitch Du Jour