nothing like it

Face yourself in a blackout mirror
we’re not here anymore
dreaming in the heavy drugs of unnecessary surgery

I don’t have the time and you don’t have the heart
happiness overshadowed by the whimsy of a right hand man
that always leads us to the bloodied pavement
for another round of passions gone wrong

Tell me who you think I am
and I’ll tell you again, you’re wrong

There’s a needle in your arm like afterbirth resurrection
I’m not Jesus, and you’re not dead
but we’ll play pretend for the sake of egg shells cracking
beneath steal capped boots
your fingers in my hair is always better than a handful of bones
purpling up my face

Let’s drink to the paranoia
and the demons in the walls
a rare steak seduction in musty architecture
leading us straight into temptations line of light
to be snorted like silver dust off a decrepit windowsill

Face yourself in a blackout mirror
we’re not here anymore
‘cause you’ve got all the answers
lined up and pinned to the back of your eyelids
hoarded from the inside of a box of last centuries fortune cookies

And I’ll tell you again
you don’t know who I am
my back against the wall, my pores open to the crumbling plaster
as though they can fill me up to be cracked
under the pressure of your ego

Lost in the liquid gold and green out hazes
of overdoing the self-drugged surgery
in search of dead enlightenment
I can forget these chemical affairs aren’t love
or anything like it
and neither are you
with a needle in your arm
and blood on my face

© Indie Adams 2013