they say that america's the melting pot, as if you could tip it over

and out would come crazy colors like van gogh's blood on some surreal canvas.

i've got crazy colors in my kiss, probably from the blood in

some strung-out boys veins, strong blue and about to be rubbed raw

because i'm into that destruction thing—never leave the pieces so that they

can be rearranged. i've always called myself addiction, as if the streets

want to have a name, as if the boys want to lick the gutter. i strut in high

heels and the puddles splash into a crazy collage that looks like van

gogh's blood spilled all over. and i think you can see all the countries

i've kissed in my reflection.