it scares you, i think, to know that your god made me.
i collect lies and imaginary little boys,
emulating bastard fathers with combat boot walks through family graveyards,
drinking from a glass full of neuroses
breathing in decay and formaldehyde
trying to decide what part of the world
you think you belong to.
(perhaps you should be looking in hell, sweetheart.
oh, and with that moustache,
you should have been a dictator.
it's a lot like love.
bang bang, bang bang,
"my baby shot me down-")
i hope you know everytime you inhale i can read your thoughts.
i pull them out one by one and put them in my purse.
they'll look lovely dried out and nailed to my wall.
(i can recall how sweet you used to be
putting pins through my heart
to show me you're the brave one.)
they're still lingering there.
just so you know.
i pull handcuffs and a butterfly net out of my pockets while your back is turned,
kissing dead girls.
(all the better to catch you with, my dear.)
and i would swallow you down but you're not really there
swallow you down but you're not really there
(my net doesn't catch anything but air.)