Portrait of a slit-wrist girl obscene bathtub posing. I imagine sniffing her black rose hair. Rubbing my thumb 'cross her pale skin. Staring into eyes more lifeless than my own. I only wish she'd waited for me. The casket had room for us both.
I danced with the void and I'd never felt more alive. Immersed in the passion of truth. Crushed in desire's embrace. I knew I wanted to be God. I knew this life was a fraud. My love awaits me on the other side. If death is the canon why are we alive?
A peek through your window thaws the arctic behind my eyes and warms the steel arms fastened around my heart. The screaming child buried beneath my skin mourns what I have become. I do this not because I love you but because you will not acknowledge it.
The haunting song played on my heartstrings in drop B feels vaguely like talons grasping through my ribcage shooting pins and needles through my spine imprisoning my mind to your allure I love that you are the death of me and cherish the nights I am ruined
Forgive me, your existence serves to break me I am sure of it The elegance in your manner-- the divinity of a woman soft-spoken Shame me for these thoughts depraved The ghost of obsession with its iron grip and yet I find myself not wanting to escape, stalking your footprints forever if I must or until this agony finds me dead Your name carved in every space your name, your name
The contrast of your dulcet skin to your toneless eyes has never looked so sexy. The way you see right through me. The art in your sovereign stalk. Black is not a color but a feeling. The vacant spot for you as my inamorata screams in silent unrest. I just want to be whole again. To bathe in your acknowledgment. To lace myself around you like your g-string.
Arousal from decay. Ultraviolent kisses under ruined wedding arches. Careening to the sound of heartbreak. I wear a crown of broken nails and dress in tatters to commemorate our first altercation. And I know you like that. When I cut myself open on pieces of you.
The swing of the rope is like a lullaby in my closet. A formal invitation to an eternity of silence. I'm fond of music, I am, but the symphony of life is so harrowing. How can I stand to hear the mocking choir of love? The cacophony of rejection? The aria of your lovely voice, it grabs too roughly at the heart.
The lyrics are nonsense and promises and insults. I wish I was deaf, but I can only be mute. I'm drowned out and I must scream or escape. I guess I will whisper into the noose in my bedroom. It's the only place I can hear my own voice for the last time.
I wish these trees could come to life and strangle me. My car reeks of booze and rainwater. Your stuff is still in the passenger's seat, but there is no smell of you. And I still think back to the night you held my hand, our fingers laced together. The nights we embraced, my head on your shoulder.
The scent of weed. My lips on your pipe the closest thing we share to a kiss. You pick at my heart like a vulture on flesh with every laugh and every implication. The mutual yet unanswered affection. I cannot wait for the day of your holy rejection.