I'll peel back his skin
to rip myself out
and climb back in

he'll smoke his cigarettes and wish he could cry;

Interrupting the worst times
with the best lines,
suicide for these cheap effects
and broken fingers

I'll go visit him the next time life gives me a commercial break,
pushing knifes through his bones
and into back seats,
orgasms suddenly tasting like infinity.

But he'll be the one apologizing on Sunday morning
drinking holy water like whiskey;;

((tell me,
now that I'm bloodstained,
does my voice make you go
masochistic?))