Sorrowful, self-loathing, suicidal lyrics swirl together like the soy protein myths she slurps on weekends, creating the lengthiest most extravagant mix-tape known to this realm. Scratched with the most horrifyingly painful migraine, they weigh down the brain people repeatedly try to convince her exists.
Jointly, they grow frightened inside their jail-like rooms as the predictability of the surrounding faces begins to suffocate them. She keeps hoping a new one will appear among them, but it is yet to emerge, just a dreary cascade of the same regressive faces bonded with the same regressive beliefs.
Running for a moribund organization, she finds her sprints cluttered with visions of weed killers and fertilizers. Wilting petals, participants die off on this struggling flower of a dictatorship. Shackles at her feet, she wonders can they tell, can anybody tell? This weight, this memory, has built a brick wall around a heavily charred exterior. Chisel away, but the mortar remains like volcanic ash: gray, wet, deadly.
Her showers are hot and not always alone as memories and regret enter the crime scene, regardless of the fact that the lock remains. Like school children at recess, they taunt her as she stands shivering in her most vulnerable state. As if an instant replay, the pictures they paint of that summer day are so vivid, she can feel that rat in the faded blue t-shirt. A blaring I-pod hides screams of terror, but only impregnates fear. No matter how hard she scrubs she never comes clean. He tells her she's dirty and she's yet to prove him wrong.
Afternoon churns like Amish butter into evening as she lays in something familiarly burning. The hands of a monster who doesn't glue her with labels when crimson drips like a broken faucet from the rivers of her scarcely dressed body or pours from the ocean of my mouth draped about her like curtains.
So you tell me, what is life without a steady stream of death's kisses?
Jointly, they grow frightened inside their jail-like rooms as the predictability of the surrounding faces begins to suffocate them. She keeps hoping a new one will appear among them, but it is yet to emerge, just a dreary cascade of the same regressive faces bonded with the same regressive beliefs.
Running for a moribund organization, she finds her sprints cluttered with visions of weed killers and fertilizers. Wilting petals, participants die off on this struggling flower of a dictatorship. Shackles at her feet, she wonders can they tell, can anybody tell? This weight, this memory, has built a brick wall around a heavily charred exterior. Chisel away, but the mortar remains like volcanic ash: gray, wet, deadly.
Her showers are hot and not always alone as memories and regret enter the crime scene, regardless of the fact that the lock remains. Like school children at recess, they taunt her as she stands shivering in her most vulnerable state. As if an instant replay, the pictures they paint of that summer day are so vivid, she can feel that rat in the faded blue t-shirt. A blaring I-pod hides screams of terror, but only impregnates fear. No matter how hard she scrubs she never comes clean. He tells her she's dirty and she's yet to prove him wrong.
Afternoon churns like Amish butter into evening as she lays in something familiarly burning. The hands of a monster who doesn't glue her with labels when crimson drips like a broken faucet from the rivers of her scarcely dressed body or pours from the ocean of my mouth draped about her like curtains.
So you tell me, what is life without a steady stream of death's kisses?
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