Real Life Human Boy Cigarette
Each one night stand is a band-aid that quickly is washed away by the faucet running with water made of the memory of him.
Stranded rose in the hoard of ravenous men, passing him like the blood of Christ on Sunday morning, everyone having their chance to wrap their lips around the glass, to consume a fraction of the contents that lay within him, but what happens when there is no more left in the cup.
But, what happens when they drink away of the wine, drink the glass empty.
The glass shatters, echoing it’s destruction against bare skinned walls.
I can’t even trust myself, each time you were within me; you left the apartment with a piece of who I was when you left, when you left, I lost myself.
ARE WE JUST FRIENDS?
YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME AS I STRIPPED CLOTHES AND DOUBT OF YOUR TRUST.
I’m a real life boy cigarette, put your mouth around me, take the high my chemicals give you, when you’re finished and I’m all burnt out, step me out on the pavement.
Seven of them (seven felt like a thousand) held his face against the cold tile of the bathroom floor, the floor was as if it was on fire, and the burns left scars under his skin forever, one no can see but he can always feel. The walls of that surrounded them muffled his screams, and hide the abuse, the walls manifested in him, muffling the memory in the day, and drowning him in his sleep, fighting to breathe, suffocating in bed sheets.
Each scar, each cut, each tear at the seams, each bruise, and each and every little reminders, is a mark of another man, that has tainted his skin in signatures, of every single of those palms that brushed a stoke of paint on his easel of skin.
He remembers the day, all too well, a memory that never fails to reside in the back of his mind, painted with nails on the skin of his eyelids. Trust taken by toxin, that blanket memory and sense of the happenings around him, he gave him the key to the lock, only to be robbed of his purity on the carpet next to the door. He held his prize like a shinning achievement as he tried to wash away the touch, bleeding on the shower floor. (I NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO SAY NO.)
The killer of life and childhood, innocence and salinity became his only wall holding him in and from his grasp around his father’s revolver in the basement.
There came no more space on his body for anymore needles to feed what he needs
Will the shot echo in the basement? Will I startle an unsuspecting women and child? Will anyone come wondering in, looking for me in the basement? The barrel is just as metallic, metallic as the blood that lingered in my mouth the day my father pushed me into the wall, and left I and my mother.
Stranded rose in the hoard of ravenous men, passing him like the blood of Christ on Sunday morning, everyone having their chance to wrap their lips around the glass, to consume a fraction of the contents that lay within him, but what happens when there is no more left in the cup.
But, what happens when they drink away of the wine, drink the glass empty.
The glass shatters, echoing it’s destruction against bare skinned walls.
I can’t even trust myself, each time you were within me; you left the apartment with a piece of who I was when you left, when you left, I lost myself.
ARE WE JUST FRIENDS?
YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME AS I STRIPPED CLOTHES AND DOUBT OF YOUR TRUST.
I’m a real life boy cigarette, put your mouth around me, take the high my chemicals give you, when you’re finished and I’m all burnt out, step me out on the pavement.
Seven of them (seven felt like a thousand) held his face against the cold tile of the bathroom floor, the floor was as if it was on fire, and the burns left scars under his skin forever, one no can see but he can always feel. The walls of that surrounded them muffled his screams, and hide the abuse, the walls manifested in him, muffling the memory in the day, and drowning him in his sleep, fighting to breathe, suffocating in bed sheets.
Each scar, each cut, each tear at the seams, each bruise, and each and every little reminders, is a mark of another man, that has tainted his skin in signatures, of every single of those palms that brushed a stoke of paint on his easel of skin.
He remembers the day, all too well, a memory that never fails to reside in the back of his mind, painted with nails on the skin of his eyelids. Trust taken by toxin, that blanket memory and sense of the happenings around him, he gave him the key to the lock, only to be robbed of his purity on the carpet next to the door. He held his prize like a shinning achievement as he tried to wash away the touch, bleeding on the shower floor. (I NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO SAY NO.)
The killer of life and childhood, innocence and salinity became his only wall holding him in and from his grasp around his father’s revolver in the basement.
There came no more space on his body for anymore needles to feed what he needs
Will the shot echo in the basement? Will I startle an unsuspecting women and child? Will anyone come wondering in, looking for me in the basement? The barrel is just as metallic, metallic as the blood that lingered in my mouth the day my father pushed me into the wall, and left I and my mother.
♠ ♠ ♠
just something I sloppily wrote down in Spanish today.