Stream of (un)consciousness
I want to spit in your face.
You make me want to break my legs,
for they’re so accustomed to running away.
I want to shoot your piano.
You make me want to break my neck,
for it’s never been a fan of looking back.
I want to slash your tires.
You make me want to pry open my eyes.
They’ve been shut so long, I’m going blind.
I want to piss in your paint.
You make me want to crack my ribcage.
It’s only used to opening for the stage.
Daydreaming in black and blue.
Are the voices both me or the two of you?
His violent voice is distractingly smooth.
For me, that isn’t italicized truth.
The rest? A mess. Dramatized too?
I wrote this nonsense before I knew:
What’s the rest of me to do?
—-suck virgin’s blood and puke?
When the best of me is you—
what’s the rest of me to do?
Oh, the pining pleas of Passion’s fool!
Stifling your spirit with your throat in his hands…
But, I guess we all know where nice guys finish…
No checkered flags for this guy, right here.
For once I’ve done right. ‘Tis for you, my dear.
“Ha! Ha,” I exclaim to the looking glass—with equal parts: pity, confusion, pride, hope, and learned sorrow.
Ha. Ha.
