(no subject)
I breathe;
oh, i am but the shell of a man.
and she picks up the shell in the holes, in her hands.
and cried out to her maker to now be her saviour, and screamed "my love, these holes in my hands are for you, just for you."
and she crushed that shell with all the strength she had left.
watch them vanish into the wind.
pieces of a paper heart burn.
arson as love.
give yourself to ashes, to the blackest ashes.
go sit in a tub, and fill it with tears.
baptize yourself until you can no longer feel.
and when you come up gasping for air, grab the razor by the side and cut hearts anywhere you might feel.
turn the water putrid red.
she says, "when i'm not with you, my heart goes to bed."
so plug your broken self into the wall where he stands.
and maybe you will light up again.
when the electricity runs through your veins
and you sit in the tub full of tears you've drowned yourself in.
and the heart shaped wounds that will scar and never fade away.
that you can't cover by bandages, and pretend they aren't there.
in the blood red water of the nile,
dorwning in your own disease,
in the pills you refused to take any longer
becuase they prevent you from feeling,
and make you so fake.
the lights flicker, and dim.
like the match in my hand, begging to strike, begging to strike.
and the .44 caliber love letter straight to your heart is burnt and fades to ashes, to the blackest ashes.
and you sit in that tub and absorb the electricity,
until you can't feel.
until you float on the surface, and you are surrounded by your hair.
until you choke it all down,
and then cough it up again.
then they ask you if you are okay, and you say fine.
we are, okay, in a misguided satanic way.
we are, okay.
what do they want you to say?
yes, all is well?
when clearly it is not?
and then they feel sorry for themselves like you do, because they can't do a damn thing to help?
no, i will tell them i am fine.
then they won't worry,
then they won't be shocked
when they find me in my safe haven,
my bathtub full of fears.
my skin milky, chalky, ghastly white like coatings covering the pills.
with the holes in my hands, that my saviour gave me.
as a shell that has been crushed,
and is no longer breathing.
no, they won't be shocked.
but you certainly will.
after the jolting is done,
and you lay dead and floating.
and the lights all flicker off.
then crucify me on your wall.
(the holes are already there for you.)
i've given up, i've made it so easy.
she used to tell a story, "you should sleep when you are upset, for in sleep there are dreams. and sometimes dreams are all you have."
but sleep gets old,
and so do dreams.
when they are all that's left.
and sometimes you'd much rather not wake up,
or replay old dreams and memories again and again through your head.
i breathe;
but i am only the shell of a man.
oh, i am but the shell of a man.
and she picks up the shell in the holes, in her hands.
and cried out to her maker to now be her saviour, and screamed "my love, these holes in my hands are for you, just for you."
and she crushed that shell with all the strength she had left.
watch them vanish into the wind.
pieces of a paper heart burn.
arson as love.
give yourself to ashes, to the blackest ashes.
go sit in a tub, and fill it with tears.
baptize yourself until you can no longer feel.
and when you come up gasping for air, grab the razor by the side and cut hearts anywhere you might feel.
turn the water putrid red.
she says, "when i'm not with you, my heart goes to bed."
so plug your broken self into the wall where he stands.
and maybe you will light up again.
when the electricity runs through your veins
and you sit in the tub full of tears you've drowned yourself in.
and the heart shaped wounds that will scar and never fade away.
that you can't cover by bandages, and pretend they aren't there.
in the blood red water of the nile,
dorwning in your own disease,
in the pills you refused to take any longer
becuase they prevent you from feeling,
and make you so fake.
the lights flicker, and dim.
like the match in my hand, begging to strike, begging to strike.
and the .44 caliber love letter straight to your heart is burnt and fades to ashes, to the blackest ashes.
and you sit in that tub and absorb the electricity,
until you can't feel.
until you float on the surface, and you are surrounded by your hair.
until you choke it all down,
and then cough it up again.
then they ask you if you are okay, and you say fine.
we are, okay, in a misguided satanic way.
we are, okay.
what do they want you to say?
yes, all is well?
when clearly it is not?
and then they feel sorry for themselves like you do, because they can't do a damn thing to help?
no, i will tell them i am fine.
then they won't worry,
then they won't be shocked
when they find me in my safe haven,
my bathtub full of fears.
my skin milky, chalky, ghastly white like coatings covering the pills.
with the holes in my hands, that my saviour gave me.
as a shell that has been crushed,
and is no longer breathing.
no, they won't be shocked.
but you certainly will.
after the jolting is done,
and you lay dead and floating.
and the lights all flicker off.
then crucify me on your wall.
(the holes are already there for you.)
i've given up, i've made it so easy.
she used to tell a story, "you should sleep when you are upset, for in sleep there are dreams. and sometimes dreams are all you have."
but sleep gets old,
and so do dreams.
when they are all that's left.
and sometimes you'd much rather not wake up,
or replay old dreams and memories again and again through your head.
i breathe;
but i am only the shell of a man.