She Makes Me Want To Make You Die
“Fuck you, you little cunt,” I say, hand on her throat. “Fucking respond, why don’t you?”
She spits black blood that burns into my skin.
She fucking loves me so much. She pays me good money to hit her when we’re alone at home, the back of my hand vibrating off of her cheek. She laughs and cries, but mostly only when I’m out of the room.
I don’t know who she thinks I am; if that’s significant at all. I don’t know if I’m at all significant to her, or if she just likes the way I respond to her; I take her money, I take her shit. I take her abuse and her lies, and I turn them into a perfect, nurturing relationship; a lie like any other.
She makes me want to want to die.
Flying Home To Sleep
God, I wish I was your
I wish I could come into your room late at night, silent as darkness and twice as malicious. I wish your friends didn’t dislike me so much. I wish I wasn’t so allergic to petty bullshit like all your social motivations.
You make me wish I was breaking the law right now. I’d go out and jaywalk just to be a little edgy while you’re still in range. I’d rather be robbing banks and killing cops, but you know, I’ll take what I can. I stick my gum on the seats of the bus, and I set fire to the ambulance tires when they’re stopped at traffic lights.
You make me feel so brutal and bold.
You remind me that I’m so naked under my clothes.
So naked and so fucking angry.
I look for a lover like I’m looking for an excuse. I want to make a mistake, and I want her to
be look like you. Yeah, you or something that tastes and moves basically like you.
I’d Love To Be Above It All
You remember how I used to do it: Fuck no, you don’t. You weren’t around for those days.
I got my sneakers on, my anti-gravity sneakers, and I’ve got their soles set to “random”.
I’m out the window like a flock of pigeons, reaching for the sky even as I tumble back down to Earth. Down past the third floor, down past the second floor, down past the first floor, and onto the sidewalk.
There’s a pocket space about as wide as train-track, and I ride it out into the street. I balance on something imperceptible. I smile as a bit of acid rain kisses my lips.
(I’ve got a lover with acid-rain kisses. She wears toxic, noxious lipsticks, and spits poison off the tip of her tongue)
I’ve got an invisible gun in each hand, and a song you’ve never heard on the edge of my lips. I’ve got a strange sense of hunger roaming through my belly, and a desire to deliver some justice to this strange and unwieldily world.
“I can’t fake it,” I explain to the birds who scatter from my sides as I scurry up the side of a skyscraper, my feet just a few feet off the surface of the structure; I run on nothing, on the idea of the Earth pushing back instead of drawing down.
“I can’t fake it, so I’ll just have to make it. I can’t lie about it, and I can’t show people shit that’s not actually happening.”
I’m talking to myself and I’m running towards you. I’ve got a plan and a goal and agenda. I’ve got nothing to hold me back or down, and I’m hungry. Always hungry.
Take Just A Little In Your Mind, And Let Loose
“That’s a dumb way to be about destiny,” she warns me, like her voice is a knife going into my head or heart. “But I suppose, in the right sort of hands, love is a weapon like any other emotion.”
“Love is a toxic and all-consuming monster that hunts in the night,” I mutter to myself, still dangling upside down my one foot over a giant chasm full of boiling, black-green acid that could burn the blood out of a stone in a few second flat.
She throws me a knife, implying I should cut myself down if I want to escape. “Take your own chances with it,” she implores me. “That way I won’t have to feel bad if, you know, the unspeakable should transpire.”
“I’m glad you’ve come up with a way for me to die that brings you no guilt,” I growl, the thick chain-links binding me to my fate giving way to the heat of the night as I held down its trigger. “I’m glad for so many fucking things about this relationship.”
She grins at me. “Look at you,” she says, watching me fall towards the ground, under my own power, and gravity’s spell. “I’ve never met a man so frayed about the super-ego and bruised around the centres of desire. You’re so used up, so worn into the ground… What keeps such a train-wreck on the tracks, I have to know? I have to.”
I smile up at her, past her, and into the golden honey sun that hovers so high overhead. “Pretty girls,” I assure her. “Pretty girls keep me going when I feel like I’ve got nothing else worth aiming for.”