Remember when you were Edward,
and I was your Swan?
We rolled around on the sitting room floor
the dinner guests,
and with Opeth
in our ears.
Your parents thought we were adorable–
darling, we were incorrigible,
even stone cold sober.
She wore fuchsia, once upon a time;
a color for him alone, now cast away by her design.
But she’s still crazy for a life
a life tossed out to float on,
now the echoes rattle her rib cage.
Echoes, fuchsia painted.
Don’t fuck around–
take your finger off my trigger,
or smoke me.
Gun smoke, black
smoke, black as my guts.
Take your finger off my trigger.
Never my history, but my always;
because you all have left the doors ajar,
and I’m no good at goodbyes.
I carry the lead keys around my neck;
I could lock up anytime that I pleased.
But I’m no good at goodbyes;
I keep you, tiny mice, in my pockets.
It isn’t fair, but you participate.
I saw a hanged woman in my shower this evening;
a figure I could not help,
A shadow cast upon the tile.
I should seriously consider replacing my shower head.
You worship on your bleeding knees,
an unholy Deity.
Open your mouth, and receive
the cold breath below reprieve–
the cold breath of self-righteousness.
And pass it on, to impress
all the winter pale people;
together build a steeple
supported by inflamed egos.
Know you can’t go where we go,
Collector of parts,
a trade most accidental–
most wanted are hearts.
They like the ones that beat with
good intentions. They taste best.