But this is not about age or the looks you gave me that night. The catastrophe. The monstrosity of the wood printed on my wrist veins, after all... after all it means nothing. Top to the bottom. My period is sharp as an arrow on that watch you broke years ago. Blood stained my fingers. I was searching for you inside of myself. Between the walls of my gender. That look is a killer. A weapon. A ticking bomb. A line of anthrax we thought is coke icing on the freshly baked cake. It's a lie your lover feeds you with scrabbled eggs and coffee. It's all the one night stands, that somehow hunt you when you are alone and drinking for the 4th day in a row, it's 11 am and you just drank yet another bottle. Killer look. Look - killer! Yes, there is a killer in this room. Standing behind, infront of. Laying under. Sitting on top. The fight. Gentle.
This is such a fucking wrong place to be. I see sea of the left, the woods on the right. Finger print after fingerprint, that you left inside my mind is burning as acid drops. Like the faces seen in hospital corridors and meeting rooms. I smell of black orchids and cigarettes. Too much thinking is getting one in trouble. Sleep. Inside the boxes and folders, paperclips and office rats. Revisiting blood pools under the bridges of cowgate and strip-clubs. She liked my shoes, the one in a wig. Everything collides in to one. One breaks into nothing. Nothing covers it all. I guess that is the game here. Seduce their ignorance. We have too much to offer. Back to code red.
Limb after limb dissecting existence. Oh, the sweet the bitter sweet misery. Club Misanthropy. We are so proud of our little battles. I am here to win this war. Everything itches. Not today. Night. Next time I will not be. Keep your humanity. For them who worship. Broken bones and stitched up privet parts. Dazzling and dangling authority. You are so lovely under overpriced glitter and starlight. Moon light. Gut light. Call in the girls, boil the boys, we will scarifies the unicorn. They already sell this meat in repacked tin cans. The iconographic white trash era. Your are the must have this christmas. The price tag of the millennium. A wrapping paper cover in cherry lube. Strategically strangled with mothers pearls.
Good night and god bless.
Queen of Disorder,