wrapping up those days with thick rust-stained bonds

squeeze tighter and tighter round your flesh till it's red enough

to inject

your hand is shaking and you're biting your lip and you're trying not to cry

and then you fall backwards into the dark past your concealing

with a good shade of ivory Mayballine coverup

how many more days of this were there be?

like spreading salt into open wounds I slit myself dry

and gulp down another harsh swig of vodka because it's bitter

with a kick

and it gets me so fucked up that I can't remember why I was sad

I'll just drunk dial people and sing in a cheery tone how much I love them

and not how alone I feel; because nobody likes a weepy drunk

go do that on your own time

and then I'll hang up and somehow, magically, a razor blade will be in my hand

and I will slice away all the pain till I'm all squeaky clean again

I'll lubricate my heart up and slide it against yours

a morbid little love song for the fucked up stoners and drunkies

it makes me want to smack a bitch

but, wait, wasnt that always me?