Putting The Dog To Sleep
epilogue
I
You met Lucy at the New Year’s Eve party. She haunted the corner of the room, just like a creature from Morrissey‘s mouth and she had no hair. She was white and nocturnal like a moth and she called you only by your full name.
Her laughter was loud, her smiles shy and she had the same lost indigo eyes, Morrissey‘s eyes, your eyes...
She said that she could see ghosts, that they were very pretty and Morrissey believed her, you just shrugged your shoulders awkwardly; because Morrissey had monsters leaving inside of him, so why couldn’t ghosts be pretty?
II
You don’t even notice when Lucy fills yours and hers shoes, when she twists, bends and pretends to be her, to be you, when she spreads her seeds inside Morrissey and starts to grow long sturdy roots, or maybe you do, but you are as good at pretending, as gifted at lying so you stay still, too still and hold your breath, to the point when your lungs almost collapse.
And when he asks her: “Are you alright, love?” You still love him, to the point that it hurts between lungs and ribs and you can’t stop wondering, are you?
III
She becomes his arms and legs, his mouth, his thoughts his fever dream. And when one day you find them naked on the floor, with her fingerprints and lines on his skin you fall to your knees ungracefully trembling hands hovering above his bare form. You read those scratches like a horror story, and more than anything you want to touch him, you want to heal, to mend, to glue what you had, yet you can’t. So you lay beside him, curl around him and when you wake up cold and alone you create another lie to believe in.
IV
They plan a party for your eighteenth birthday. A proper party, with foreign people littering the empty halls and their loud voices hiccuping in between your ribs. But you are not the one for dancing, your clumsy carcass dressed in acute angles and thinning bones and so you sit still in front of an ancient television that doesn‘t even work, imagining ill lit pictures changing with the speed of striking lightning.
You don‘t feel the same, your flesh too small to keep you in, your ashen hair too short, tucked behind small ears. And when you stand up, you feel so horribly young, wavy lashes flooding faded cheeks. Morrissey is kissing Lucy, right in front of your eyes, her blood red lips and your pale form fading into the dark. You hit him, you swallow blood, taste panic, smell horror and you try to become someone else, try to shiver out of your skin, while Morrissey convulses on the floor.
You think he looks lovely, you wish he would just bite his tongue and you are too angry for words too tired, so you stay still and quiet and cruel, just like one of the monsters. And for a moment just one damn moment you believe you are one of them.
When Morrissey wakes up, you smile; he smiles back, his ugly red mouth curling up. You realize that it is time for you to leave.
V
You feel lost without him, your heartbeat echoes in the cage of emptiness, your lungs ache from silent screams as you tangle both of your hands in your hair, trying to pull tiredness and pain out through your head.
Your mouth whispers his name like a curse, your voice stumbles through vowels and consonants so desperate and raw and suddenly you are so scared, that you just want to blindly run somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, yet when you rise your feet get tangled in the sheets, your head becomes a kaleidoscope of pictures and memories and your mouth tastes red. You don’t rise, you don’t fall, the room moves in slow motion, your skin feels too big, your soul too naked and you wish for sleep but it won’t come, because you are finally broken. Some people just can’t be saved.
VI
Everything happens on the 17th, every significant event of your life. And when you find him waiting for you by the door with scissors you feel cursed.
“You are late.” he tells you, just before you enter through the door, drenched to the bone with hands too heavy from grocery bags and books. And you let him in because for the past months you have been speaking loudly just to hear him in your words, just to remember his voice.
“You are late.” He repeats again and again and you sigh, tiredly nodding your head. Yes, yes you are. It is already too late, because no matter how hard you try to sleep him away he would still haunt you.
VII
When you ask him what happened to Lucy you can’t stop writing down names or things on your arms too afraid to look at him. He brings the scissors to your head, yet you keep your mouth shut and suck in a jerky breath, when Morrissey licks all the M’s away. He slices your locks away while you feel broken yet you let him drown in his head in this game of pretense and lie and when the job is done;
“Come here.” He beckons, his fingers wiggling in half light and you feel just like a dog.
You snort in mirth, but you can’t keep yourself from stumbling on your first step and on the third too.
His arms close around you, yet you don’t feel trapped, because you finally realize your place, you are just a dog after all. Your laughter sounds like a misplaced hiccough in the cold room.
VIII
When the second creature crawls out you don‘t sleep. You sit underneath your blue kitchen table and fold origami cranes with Morrissey
His sharp shoulder blades stick out of his bent spine like bat wings and you spare him a shattered smile when you push him one of the birds, his rough fingertips almost touching yours. He doesn‘t take it, you don‘t expect him, because all he ever wanted was to be buried alive together, all he ever wanted was this game of pretense and lies.
IX
"Putting The Dog To Sleep" The Antlers
Prove to me I’m not gonna die alone.
Put your arm around my collarbone,
And open the door.
Don’t lie to me if you’re putting the dog to sleep,
That pet you just couldn’t keep,
And couldn’t afford.
Well prove to me I’m not gonna die alone.
Unstitch that shit I’ve sewn,
To close up the hole that tore through my skin.
Well my trust in you is a dog with a broken leg,
Tendons too torn to beg for you to let me back in.
You said, “I can’t prove to you you’re not gonna die alone,
But trust me to take you home,
To clean up that blood all over your paws.
You can’t keep running out,
Kicking yourself off the bed,
Kicking yourself in the head,
Because you’re kicking me too.”
Put your trust in me,
I’m not gonna die alone.
Put your trust in me,
I’m not gonna die alone… I don’t think so...
You met Lucy at the New Year’s Eve party. She haunted the corner of the room, just like a creature from Morrissey‘s mouth and she had no hair. She was white and nocturnal like a moth and she called you only by your full name.
Her laughter was loud, her smiles shy and she had the same lost indigo eyes, Morrissey‘s eyes, your eyes...
She said that she could see ghosts, that they were very pretty and Morrissey believed her, you just shrugged your shoulders awkwardly; because Morrissey had monsters leaving inside of him, so why couldn’t ghosts be pretty?
II
You don’t even notice when Lucy fills yours and hers shoes, when she twists, bends and pretends to be her, to be you, when she spreads her seeds inside Morrissey and starts to grow long sturdy roots, or maybe you do, but you are as good at pretending, as gifted at lying so you stay still, too still and hold your breath, to the point when your lungs almost collapse.
And when he asks her: “Are you alright, love?” You still love him, to the point that it hurts between lungs and ribs and you can’t stop wondering, are you?
III
She becomes his arms and legs, his mouth, his thoughts his fever dream. And when one day you find them naked on the floor, with her fingerprints and lines on his skin you fall to your knees ungracefully trembling hands hovering above his bare form. You read those scratches like a horror story, and more than anything you want to touch him, you want to heal, to mend, to glue what you had, yet you can’t. So you lay beside him, curl around him and when you wake up cold and alone you create another lie to believe in.
IV
They plan a party for your eighteenth birthday. A proper party, with foreign people littering the empty halls and their loud voices hiccuping in between your ribs. But you are not the one for dancing, your clumsy carcass dressed in acute angles and thinning bones and so you sit still in front of an ancient television that doesn‘t even work, imagining ill lit pictures changing with the speed of striking lightning.
You don‘t feel the same, your flesh too small to keep you in, your ashen hair too short, tucked behind small ears. And when you stand up, you feel so horribly young, wavy lashes flooding faded cheeks. Morrissey is kissing Lucy, right in front of your eyes, her blood red lips and your pale form fading into the dark. You hit him, you swallow blood, taste panic, smell horror and you try to become someone else, try to shiver out of your skin, while Morrissey convulses on the floor.
You think he looks lovely, you wish he would just bite his tongue and you are too angry for words too tired, so you stay still and quiet and cruel, just like one of the monsters. And for a moment just one damn moment you believe you are one of them.
When Morrissey wakes up, you smile; he smiles back, his ugly red mouth curling up. You realize that it is time for you to leave.
V
You feel lost without him, your heartbeat echoes in the cage of emptiness, your lungs ache from silent screams as you tangle both of your hands in your hair, trying to pull tiredness and pain out through your head.
Your mouth whispers his name like a curse, your voice stumbles through vowels and consonants so desperate and raw and suddenly you are so scared, that you just want to blindly run somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, yet when you rise your feet get tangled in the sheets, your head becomes a kaleidoscope of pictures and memories and your mouth tastes red. You don’t rise, you don’t fall, the room moves in slow motion, your skin feels too big, your soul too naked and you wish for sleep but it won’t come, because you are finally broken. Some people just can’t be saved.
VI
Everything happens on the 17th, every significant event of your life. And when you find him waiting for you by the door with scissors you feel cursed.
“You are late.” he tells you, just before you enter through the door, drenched to the bone with hands too heavy from grocery bags and books. And you let him in because for the past months you have been speaking loudly just to hear him in your words, just to remember his voice.
“You are late.” He repeats again and again and you sigh, tiredly nodding your head. Yes, yes you are. It is already too late, because no matter how hard you try to sleep him away he would still haunt you.
VII
When you ask him what happened to Lucy you can’t stop writing down names or things on your arms too afraid to look at him. He brings the scissors to your head, yet you keep your mouth shut and suck in a jerky breath, when Morrissey licks all the M’s away. He slices your locks away while you feel broken yet you let him drown in his head in this game of pretense and lie and when the job is done;
“Come here.” He beckons, his fingers wiggling in half light and you feel just like a dog.
You snort in mirth, but you can’t keep yourself from stumbling on your first step and on the third too.
His arms close around you, yet you don’t feel trapped, because you finally realize your place, you are just a dog after all. Your laughter sounds like a misplaced hiccough in the cold room.
VIII
When the second creature crawls out you don‘t sleep. You sit underneath your blue kitchen table and fold origami cranes with Morrissey
His sharp shoulder blades stick out of his bent spine like bat wings and you spare him a shattered smile when you push him one of the birds, his rough fingertips almost touching yours. He doesn‘t take it, you don‘t expect him, because all he ever wanted was to be buried alive together, all he ever wanted was this game of pretense and lies.
IX
"Putting The Dog To Sleep" The Antlers
Prove to me I’m not gonna die alone.
Put your arm around my collarbone,
And open the door.
Don’t lie to me if you’re putting the dog to sleep,
That pet you just couldn’t keep,
And couldn’t afford.
Well prove to me I’m not gonna die alone.
Unstitch that shit I’ve sewn,
To close up the hole that tore through my skin.
Well my trust in you is a dog with a broken leg,
Tendons too torn to beg for you to let me back in.
You said, “I can’t prove to you you’re not gonna die alone,
But trust me to take you home,
To clean up that blood all over your paws.
You can’t keep running out,
Kicking yourself off the bed,
Kicking yourself in the head,
Because you’re kicking me too.”
Put your trust in me,
I’m not gonna die alone.
Put your trust in me,
I’m not gonna die alone… I don’t think so...