933 Pacific St.

I’m going to set myself on fire and dance, and laugh while I burn. You get me wet, gasoline soaked, dangerously close with your flaming lips. What sort of drug am I on? Catalog list of your vices: done that, done that, ooo that looks fun. Could I live your life for a day? Fuck your insides til I feel what it means to be you? Jumping up and down inside of your skin I finally felt alive.

Till I woke up again alone along side this lonely bed and empty mattress. What do you want from me, god? I’ve tried so hard to live a good life, but yet I can’t be happy. She would do, or she would do, but it’s not love, it’s just the gentle sound of settling. A slow creak in my bones as I lowered myself upon her. Bones on bones crackling lust and friendship, but not much more. I wonder how long I could last in that sort of hell, unfairly cast demoness constanly searching for a beatific ideal that I can’t provide. You’re the villain in my play baby, no matter how hard you try.

She’s got freckles on her nose, you know. How can I compete with that? If only I could leave her like she left me, unsatisfied. But what I’m selling, she ain’t buying. I sold my soul on credit, to a bank that foreclosed on my heart. Can I destroy my dignity with poor metaphor any more intensely? Lonely night comes full circle, alone in a crowd. Alone in the train, alone at home, finally comfortable in my solitude. Oh tricky here to there.