I can't see the cataracts, I can't breath the cancer. Still forgetting all about my strokes... ...of genius. So sweat the Ebola, chill through Influenza, shivering through all my fever dreams of Liza. Tied to hear-say social tropes, blame it on her horoscopes, bleaching all of her cheap lipstick off of my glassware. Practicing in hypocrisy, preferring infidelity, I'm way too fucking old to still be writing about my ex girlfriends...
Let me know when you decide whether you choose to live or die. Don't be shy, each futures bright. Mod and sheek and high on life. Dig it up after cadaver, whatever. We'll be warm inside the corpse of a dead love.
Her old apartment reeked of piss, she fucked like a creationist, shrouded by the cadence of failure is now just white noise. stabbing at what just won't bleed, cringing til i fall asleep, denying all of the offers to assist in social suicide. She's a little bit 'new wave', tapping one foot in the grave, a 'diet version' of that girl from work... that has a boyfriend. Laid under her yard sale art, liquor will tear us apart, I'd rather die a son without a father than create one.
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