Blow Out
He is 22, and this makes him my best and closest friend, buying me cancers from the local drug stores because he knows I sleep with the back end of the futon folded up, and how I just can't handle that space.
You are 16 and reading Freud, and animatronic tribute to broken poetry and boys in lipstick.
Sometimes
I feel as though I'm bleeding out Bible verses and the chorus of dead rock stars.
He watched us grow from tangled pre-teenagers; spinal cords twisted and toes intertwined.
No empty space left for oxygen, just wet and thickened vocal cords and brush stokes of wet hair on sharp shoulder blades.
Soda cans turned ashtrays, and soon after I stopped tasting anything but the dried vomit hangovers in the morning of a Tuesday. Eventually pills replace Melatonin and the circles just get bigger, under your eyes and in the people we use to stereotype at the wall with X's on our hands.
Blood fights it's way through tissue, ugly bruised citrus underneath heterochromia irids and just above the hallow of your throat.
The secret to life is that we all have a few bad afternoons standing on the edges of rooftops and bridges,
but you're still supposed to be here, talking me out of sloppy suicide after everything falls apart.
You are 16 and reading Freud, and animatronic tribute to broken poetry and boys in lipstick.
Sometimes
I feel as though I'm bleeding out Bible verses and the chorus of dead rock stars.
He watched us grow from tangled pre-teenagers; spinal cords twisted and toes intertwined.
No empty space left for oxygen, just wet and thickened vocal cords and brush stokes of wet hair on sharp shoulder blades.
Soda cans turned ashtrays, and soon after I stopped tasting anything but the dried vomit hangovers in the morning of a Tuesday. Eventually pills replace Melatonin and the circles just get bigger, under your eyes and in the people we use to stereotype at the wall with X's on our hands.
Blood fights it's way through tissue, ugly bruised citrus underneath heterochromia irids and just above the hallow of your throat.
The secret to life is that we all have a few bad afternoons standing on the edges of rooftops and bridges,
but you're still supposed to be here, talking me out of sloppy suicide after everything falls apart.
♠ ♠ ♠
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