You: want broken bones, pulled back decaying skin and sex (like drugs). drunken masses of angry teenagers screaming into smoke filled air that this is the end (this, you will explain to me later, with your voice calm, is the fucked up society… and we call this life? You will laugh as you tell me that this ex-heaven is a beautiful hell, and this world is as polluted as our minds) inhaling opium like incense, rolling joints in pages from the bible and signing your name on the devil's face in spit/
'my fixation is their need to fight or die' you write after you shower in the steam on the mirror. Suicide note are for the ones who want to be saved, you whispered into your palms at night, and one time, you denied existence.
- this world is a sellout and we're the worst ones
because we realize what is it and we just play along –
your voice was like nails on a chalk-board, you were trying to explain the blood-lust in this catastrophe and all I could understand were the words in-between (you me nowhere nothing first star fairytales don't exist) there was air in your tendons and you were pushing needles like orgasms under your skin (there are things inside of me that are worse than gangrene). You wanted a Mc Donald's straw, cut to about an inch and a piece of foil. (you explain to me, as I watch you breathe in your diseases, that if you inhale too hard you won't get a good hit so you have to inhale soft, like whispers)
Afterwards, I will wonder if maybe I wasn't suppose to make the connection between your painfully awake eyes and chemical breath.
that night there would be a drug bust and a gang rape down the street from your house. You will see yourself in the mirror, fogged up, with secret messages in your face and debate the consequence of forever.
You will have a closed casket funeral\ I will, naturally, graffiti your tombstone.
and I will wonder what people think about it when they walk by and see it.
Because you were much prettier without a face/
"Yes, my dear, you were the vultures."