You wiped my tears away
and it seems like it should have been so fucking romantic:
callused fingertips brushing smooth made-up cheeks
and I want to kiss you when you do it, but I'm already
giving you everything I have.
My legs make angles against the backseat, sharp and sexual
like all those give me words:
baby, I, love, you. I could whisper in your ear
I was an addict before I was born but you're pulling me out
piece by piece and it's like a shred of tobacco
on the top of twenty pure white filters, I want to get you off
but the sin looks so good.
Skinny, is the way I look without my shirt, and it is
not fucking romantic, the way you can trace my ribs as they
intertwine with my veins, so blue it's like I
was an addict before I was born. You inject me with
everything I never wanted and I light up a cigarette with the windows
all the way up, letting it fill your car with
the box says. Smoking is going to kill me, unless you do it first.
I want to whisper in your ear
baby, I love you but you've already given me satisfaction
and it only hurt half as much as the
thin thread of a needle
tying me up into butterfly knots: anxiety is the color of blood,
love is the color of my shadow on your black leather seats,
strangely sexual angles
like angel wings and you want to turn me on but
I'm out of lighter fluid.
I inhale too fast and forget to breathe,
call it fucking romantic that you take my breath away
but it's only because
I smoke to forget what it is that makes me love you
and I'm always trying to forget
I was an addict before I was born and it's so hard
to remember what I'm supposed to be addicted to:
is it your fingers, his needles, the blood, the nicotine,
the two hits that send me flying like
an angel o(n)r some heroin(e).
Clever, you shake your head and plunge deeper.
I want to drown because it feels too good,
you feel too wrong, this is not what I need
so I whisper (and it looks like it's fucking romantic
but all I say is)
I'd rather be dead than be addicted to you. And you say
baby, I, love, you. Strung out, the tears come down,
you wipe them away. Oh, we're such fucking romantics.