The Hits Just Keep on Comin'!

I read today that he would pull the metal from my wrists and crumple my loneliness in a paper cup forever.

God if that were true, i’d birth him that 50 pound baby he wants, or maybe help him adopt the fat kid in the yellow t-shirt he saw standing on the corner.

But you know it’s a long way down

So on your trip to the bottom, you marked the descent just to see some fucking progress

Thinking how nice it would be the next time

But it’s all relative.

And the rotting wooden crosses in the back yard smell just like a pile of sugar-sweet shit

You’d burn them but you don’t want to associate with the KKK.

So you try to burn your memories instead,

The hotel room where he left you like a stain on the bedsheets

Setting fire to the white hair domes of the church ladies with clucking tongues and prickly mustaches and used Kleenex wadded and stuffed into their over-perfumed bosoms, funny you'll never forget the feel of someone else's snot wiped across your face

The jars and tubes of makeup scattered all over her bathroom, the ones that made her bright red lips seem so pointy and unfriendly her eyes golden and purple and more frightening than any bogey man especially when she began to spit from that pointy red mouth and you knew what was coming next

Singing on the porch swing

Go tell it on the mountain

And over the hills and right there in the grass on a bed of crushed leaves that crackled and scratched with every thrust

But there are no saviors anymore

No one has a paper cup

And my wrists are still full of metal.