You smell like dead spaghetti, and I’m tired of all the birds. You want to come into my shack, but once you get there, you only complain about the urine smell. I’ll not suffer this persecution from a foul-mouthed little beast that has the manners of a blood-rusted pick ax!
Don’t tell me not to scratch it—if it wasn’t meant to be scratched, it wouldn’t itch so much. We can either argue about how you’ll meet your end, or I can just stick this thing into your eye and be done with it—entirely up to you.
There are doors that should not be opened, filled with lust and memories, and nothing inside looks like the monsters that they are: the monsters that could destroy you completely.
Burning hand soap and fire on tap, we’ll dance until the world is dead. Don’t look too closely at what you don’t want to see, and never search for the answers you don’t want to find. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t always the best way to go, and it’s wise to remember that even angels have fallen.
Doped-up tigers prowling the night, looking for something soft and warm and settling for anything bloody. Soft orbits of concentration in the forever of nothing, an abysmal tide that washes away common sense, these are the true nightmares, and waking up invigorated only makes it worse.
Who are you that you would touch me there? It is not physical but it is defilement all the same, and I never, ever granted permission for that. My past is gone, and it is not your decision to bring it back, even if you are part of it.
I sit in the corner, rubbing sore muscles with rusty blades and harsh words, shivering at your warmth and looking for a deeper shadow.
Things don’t always work out for the best. It’s not a happy day when you wake up and realize that you are not the protagonist of your own life story. You suddenly realize that you’re the bad guy, you’re the one that the hero has to defeat. Which makes it that much worse when you win. No one will grant you permission to weep for the death of justice if you succeed. “What are you complaining about?” they’ll ask. “You have a good life.” And they’ll never know that you complain because you have a good life—the injustice of it all is devastating.
Pulling rank emotions from the cesspool of the intangible, mixing them with rum and rat poison, hoping that it goes well with pancakes as you throw the skillet against the mirror.
I stand at the edge of the balcony and watch gallons of insanity spill out into the parking lot, polluting nothing but the woods and the small creatures that aren’t quick enough to escape.
Stepping too close to the line, grocery shopping with devils that should be left outside. I’ll call your twelve cents and raise you a future of scars and tears. Now deal.
Twenty-five-cent shots and six-dollar vaccines; sick-dollar vaccines, step up and decide what you want, but you batter have enough for the cover charge.
I’ll bind you with fruit flavoring and hollow promises that you never meant to keep, and I’ll only escape through penance.
Enter the delusions of safety, stage right, and just ignore the monologue that states it was never anything worth thinking about, there was never any risk. And then ignore the broken back and the spilled blood, and the fact that you can’t walk anymore.
Flashes of flesh, sounds of seduction, whispers and sob-stories, lost hope and salvaged salvation—how easily we are lured. Won’t you be my neighbor?