weathered black ribbons fall from places of worship around this painfully ordinary neck, cds skip until i am no longer reminded of sad faces and square glasses that never belonged to you. they were always too big for my head anyways, and i hated the way that they never looked on you. so instead i'll pretend that yellow lenses look infinately better on a broken nose and pretend that this aggression is anything more than undeserved. play make believe guitar riffs that i can label and the arrogance that i stole from you.

oh well.

i'll awlk around, hands tied behind my back in the only way that i could never allow them to be. tied above my head the way that they tried, feet bound together in lovely golden shackles that look so good; the red high heels are sharp enough to crave my name into your chest. too bad someone spiked the liquor at your school prom and the stuff turned from alcohol to ether. those stars are for you, all i can see are the galaxies dwelling 'tween the front and back of yr too-tight skull. hows that for a monologue?

a blank murder while i spill your guts on the floor and make a pretty drawing out of them for the crimescene. spell my name out in your blood, and watch pretty little please-men scurry about, the jail needs filling and a lovely little catholic schoolgirl would do well in a suburban wasteland. it's hard, though, catching the invisible, while i hold up in yr skin and leaf through the memories in your brain as though they were nothing. and they are, there aren't enough of me, and the me inside of you feels too jealous, lovely little orange haired angels with i rip mine out and know that it was never stolen eyes that so enraptured you. an amalgamy of two torn faces, two exquisite torsoes and pink creases in twin sets of opposite skins. is this fair? no, love, but get used to it as i use you. my hidden inner motives aren't too far hidden, is the explicit ones that you need to watch out for while you bath in my blood and paint your black sheets red with them. a memory of where i lay, lovely decoration for the next pierced princess. but while i'm hear, i would rip myself apart. hand you my eyes and ears and broken belly button inside a package wrapped in my tissue and a piece of worn string, marked "do not open until apocalypse".

these policies wreak havoc on my brain and leave my indepenace scarcely visible. no more than before, i can't breathe. singing ancient hymns out of worn hymnals and wondering how many hands had lain here before them. how many girls had lain there before, how many others bore your scars. none but me, my selfish and stupid ways bought me nothing short of unmitable agony for no reason. a lovely picture show for you, doesn't it make you feel grand when you can watch my misery as though it were nothing? as though it were something? plush seats for the end of the universe; can i sit beside you and hold your hand?