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.