i make up stories about you
and i, little romantic pieces of complete
bullshit, and kiss them onto my lucky nickel with the
hitler mustache scribbled on in sharpie because
one day i will toss that nickel into a wishing well
and pretend that i'm really throwing
myself down into its dank throat because
that was always your wish.
sometimes i sleep with a prosthetic man
and pretend that he's you.
it's almost perfect except
he doesn't kick in his sleep
and he doesn't say
"you're hogging up all of the blankets"
at three forty-two in the morning
and he doesn't press his boner into
my thigh until i finally give in and
then cry myself to sleep while you go
and chug all of my chocolate soymilk…
(you could learn a thing or two from
a plastic mannequin.)
eyes are windows to the soul, you know.
you always said mine used to be so full of
life and love and all of those beautiful four letter
words. now you say that they're murky like
mud and shit and stagnant water, the kind with
little dead and dying bugs shivering on the surface,
and you say that i should shut my soulless eyes
and that we should just…
(insert hideous four letter word.)
you always hated looking at my eyes,
knowing that you were the one that
destroyed the girl behind them.
so i'll let my eyelids flutter closed
and let you fuck the nothing that i've become.
(you never could decide if you loved
me or the bullet that you blasted into your brain
more, i don't see the difference-
we're both shells of what we used to be.)