rebirth or something like it

it seems as though i can only write about you in the summer, it seems the only fuel i have, sweating skin sticking my clothes to my back, sweet hot melted chapstick, beach knees and dusk by the bonfire, we are all immortal in the memories, the cold has made me weak and listless, every night the episodes of tossing and turning drag me deeper down into a unsatisfying sleep, something resembling a car crash coma, or a failed attempted suicide. did you catch on that i stopped writing for you, when i thought it was golden, i was given grey ashes, you told me to pick them apart and build an empire, but how do i build an empire with nothing but ashes?

lol

wait till you see what the warm months and caked on makeup have done to me.

I've been torn down into resembling a shell of a girl, nothing hurts more than when your eyes turn

to me and you let out a sound of disappointment. I cross my fingers and laugh, but I really want to bite down on the leather strap and drain these veins, and fill them up with something more useful

i don't want your sympathy in any form,

theres no reason to crawl back to me on those knees that knock when you walk , I can see you've already been somebody else's martyr for the night, they are already raw and rug burned.

the summer i lost interest in all morale

i like feeling the hollow hunger of movement inside me

we didnt even have to have fucked and you would have been a dog at my knees

i cant control these actions when there is sweet substance involved

im not talking emotions and bullshit that comes from the heart, im talking fucking chemicals

do you have any idea how it feels to truly believe your heart is about to stop beating,

then there is the heroin that stops my shaking fingers from pushing the nails back against your headboard.

your baby looks like a fucking alien.

crawling through static

black caviar lungs. cocaine white skin. porn star red lips.

i am filling the void with you. 

the mother wolf of a starved suckling nation. 

our blue collar nooses don't satiate her

we need the TV static to drown out the moaned pleads of poverty to help us sleep

at night

and broad casted upper class lullabies

shaking in the sheets at the thought of a pixilated revolution

we expose human fallacy via single sentence updates 

theres some trouble in room 100

i want to spend valentines day in the room where sid vicious supposedly killed his girlfriend nancy spungen. The chelsea hotel in nyc, room 100. take me?

fuck it

i feel completely naked, even with all these scars 

hell

they were draining me with their gorgeous faces and the way their body language begged to be fucked up. Turning me on the sniffling late 1980's street punk nose barely bleeding barely breathing. fucking intoxicated infatuated with the taste of whisky as the photographers fingers went deeper in me and as my eyes rolled back I fixed my eyes on a crack in the ceiling of this underground club and for a brief moment i could of sworn i was in hell