Complete Lack of Foresight
Why don't we just take a good, hard look at those raindrops on the windshield? One by one, they're reflecting every shard of remaining sunlight into the corners of my bruised, bloodshot eyes. I've seen enough. Darling, we're just all dried up now. Bare roads and chapped lips wind their way through never(neveragain)land, up the hills of my arched back, bruised hips, and the skin stretched across your torn up collar bone. This is all we've got, baby. So let's just grit our teeth while you admit to me: you never gave a shit about my makeup anyway; the glitter was all a facade. Look up, up, up towards the shot gun dreams shot down from acid skies. All too soon we'll be drenched with the melodramatic makebelieve they bleed upon my disbelieving, gaping face... This isn't what I was expecting, but, if I've learned anything, it's "take what you can get and fuck, fuck, fuck the heroic." Looking back, I see myself grimacing into the mirror, staring past nervous twitches and bleached exteriors. I swore I wouldn't say it. I promised myself into oblivion that it would end up all on your head the next time around (this time around.)
I was right.