Post Break Tragedy - Shotgun

sick of three letter expressions of inner torment, the kind that he wears on the outside and douses with too warm liquor and melted ice cubes, thrown from the freezer, but the plugs been worn from too many hair dryers. jam drips like blood, i confuse the two so readily. i'm not prepared for this, crumpled syntax and empty expressions that have been overused to the point of void. nullified.

too confusing to be called perplexing, i'd rather sit in a round black room with windows facing skyward. wind chime fantasies that aren't my own, but i'd beg for that horror movie killer to bind me to the railroad for yr eternity.

patching together non-existant friendships with boys i've never known before and will never know again once the cyanide kicks in. it's meant for you, and i hope you like the colour green because it will be all that you see in a few short minutes. kiss me, love, hard, before you go, and i'll beg to see your mouth covered in your own blood.

i'm drowning in six inches of water, i can't push my face to the surface of this mirror fast enough to draw you in.

am i confusing? you don't have to answer truthfully, and i know you haven't, just like i never thought that the colour blue suited you. better for you to be brown, better for you to be red. better for you to be what i never could be.

cardboard beds have never felt this good after lying in yours.