It’s not love, but it’s still for sale

My life’s for rent because I can’t sell it
no one wants the dead and bloated aroma of failure
strangling them with the choke-chain
I only get out for special occasions

Escape has become an obsession
to swallow the ugly of all apologies
disingenuously aimed my way

Crack the shutters so we can let in the dust
and watch it float on midnight moon beams
laced with the vodka I hide under my bed
because it’s no fun if you don’t have to crawl
just to vomit on the light switch before falling asleep
on the rat-trap floor

Under the tyranny of normality
I feel like I’m losing my morality
and us remains impossible
when I’m missing the puzzle pieces that make me human
my own two feet unsteady on even ground

And I know we’ll be coming back around
to all the places we’ve been
though the fields of innocence have died under the pesticides
of tomorrow’s economy
that pays us in allergies and trust funds that we opened
just to watch them stay empty

My life’s for rent
and you act like your body is for sale
flowered with all the pretty bruises of self-destruction

I’m lonely and you’re broken
if we paid each other
do you think we’d have sex
and call it love for a night?       

© Indie Adams 2014