death by paper cut

windshield misery

what the fuck do you want from me?

i want my body/ to stop being/ a sliding door of grief/ a one way ticket show/ to a room with only one bed/ two bodies/ not enough air residing/ yet always enough liquor to pour in.

try describing us in fewer phrases than the ones you left me with: first four knuckles smell of pennys, the shattered clock of your car, windshield misery, and how my words are stuck in my throat... yet

i am standing on the curb whimpering, sorry. sorry. sorry!

and how you don't remember my birthday, yet i can count the days til you turn twenty five off my fingers. and your middle name is etched into the back of my hand, like you will never stop BEING. imortallism with a hint of dirty rum and coke... meet me when the clock strikes midnight.

i'll lick the blood off your fingers. better in my mouth than yours.