Every morning at 7 o' clock, when I wake up from the hot garbage pile in which I fucking sleep, I drink my lukewarm sweet hibiscus tea. it Tastes Bad, and I'm not happy yet, I don't smoke, but I like the smell of cigarettes. I fill a bottle up with water and a soggy piece of fruit, as I wonder what I'll do, to the cups I keep right there on the table (just to demonstrate I'm a little unstable.) There's a Drizzle outside, today on Halloween in July, the world seems to be Over This, and as I press my face up against the glass, I think to myself so am I.
I have no plans for today, but I still might just Runaway, run away to mexico, cause there's nobody here and nobody at home. I was Born2Run, I was born to roam.
I take my meds, until I stop. I grab the trenchcoat made of atoms by my bedroom wall, under which the future flows like static, that wretched sound. I do the regular shuffle, I walk down to the streets of the fake Montreal constructed by my brain within my dead girl town.
Perched on the Dumpster, a cemetery pigeon, a necropolis snail, I mumble "Warm Regards" as I try to sound sincere, but I'm just so sad, I fail. Cemetery pigeons, I met God, will she love me like a fawn? Oh how I wonder just what went so wrong. The Lavander Soap I used to clean the wounds from the ripped stitches of my mammal flesh makes me feel high, like last night on Pseudaphed.
I wind through the streets of town, all over the place, like a headless moth, a Ghost Chase. My phones ring, even though it's still winter break, the alerts from the news sing a tune, not unlike a sadistic Cabaret. So I say to the hammerhead stuck in a large glass tank, and the cemetery pigeon flying away "You Should Know, Baxter 3rd Is Under Fucking Siege!", "Time of my life" they respond, but the beast refuses to die.
I met god or whatever, I see her on the sidewalk, and I know it's just a game, that I'm playing with my brain, but Them's Dancin' Words make me go insane. It's Bad Advice! It must be so, cause it doesn't really matter, if I don't wanna go, Over the Moon or anywhere alone. Cause when I said take me to the moon, I never meant take me alone, have fun in Montreal, I'll stay in, watching c-span on my phone.
Atomistic rational behaviour, I concur, I might've seen the way I spoke last night, but I'm not sure. I haven't the slightest and I haven't the right. I wanna run, I wish to scream: "Old Man, you corporate fucking prick. I'm just a goblin, I never asked for this. I'll be your sin eater, I'll be your something blue, but people are in pain, the fuck went wrong with you?"
So I wake up again to twelve o' clock lights, the concentric circles above me swirling in my dead girl eyes. I'm writing a letter, sitting right there in the street, it was salty, you see. It also tasted Gross, but the west coast sun stroke left me loving you most. I love writing you letters, I write to you every day, and it says exactly what we both wish it to say. "I'll be your something blue, though I don't quite yet know how, I will save you from that fate, it'll feel better. Cigarette Ahegao". I sign the letter with Warm Regards and make sure to add "From Russia with love". All I wanted was a framework, now I'm moonsick, nearly dead, however I miss you still, the liquor underneath your bed, the way you loved our lukewarm Honeysuckle Lavander Butterscotch, and stale bread.
You didn't text, you didn't call, you've got 4 for thanksgiving in the fall. The blood has been rejected, but that's fine, cause you drew the tar out of my bloodstream, the salt inside my veins and in my eyes. And you could plausibly say that I'm alive by sheer luck, but with God as my fucking witness This Night Will Not Suck.
I returned to my apartment, stay in and wait to die, but at least we have each other, despite the beast refusing to die.
Now that you've made it all 4 years, and a few paragraphs more, I think You Should Know. Sometimes I move so fast sometimes so slow, I don't care much for what happens to me, but as I imagine a life better than the one I know, I realize it won't happen and slip into the sea. And tonight I think I'll skip the true crime, there's enough of it in real life, and to be honest I'd rather cry. I'll turn on the Shitty Song I listen to After a Self Care day, take my drugs, and say
"Well isn't this just the time of my fucking life, I honestly couldn't care less nor could I care more, however since the beast itself refuses to die
I guess
I suppose
Neither will I"
