cigarette smoke.

sour sun / songs unsung

we're burning our bridges before they're built so we don't have to watch them crumble; we're eating gilded sand so we taste the grit and salt of unmade glass digging at our mouths―swallowing secrets and getting drunk off gatorade and cheap beer. we're dying gods and we're living for it, consequences be damned until they arive.

we're as unholy as they come with our grimy fingernails and yellowed teeth, wings ripped from wasps stitched to our shoulderblades so we might know what it means to fly / so we might be crushed under some beings heal. or flyswatters―

apricots gone sour in the sunlight; teeth chipped on rubber concrete. trip and fall - oblivion'll hold us, darling and dear.

(softly, it'll hold us like were made of something worthwhile / like our bones are made of brittle glass.)

- viles of melancholy dip into your skin, but you never, ever say a word. if you stay like that, you could make a woman-man-thing guilty. or maybe i'll do it all on my own. wax dripping like rainwater from the washing machine that's breaking down in the hallway. the dryer isn't doing much better―too hot in the summer, anyway.

maybe the heat will singe my fingertips before i melt away. putting lemon zest in my tea / to cover the almond shaped pill dissolving under, it tastes awful and bitter, like sugarless lemonade, but i don't mind much. my tastebuds are changing again.

i've walked into so many places and come out another that it makes me dizzy just thinking about it― i'm not really me, i'm an amalgamation of everyone i've never know and the people i've clung to (desperate child) like a lifeline.

you'll be pretty and perfect and i'll be everything else. burnt out kid on the way to someplace not even the gods dear venture―

(i'd thought mythology was history at some point, that HE  had told his most beloved subject to kill his son atop HIS tallest hill as a sacrifice. like a lamb―am i that expendable in the name of all that's holy? just a cog?)

the records in the basement are crumpled retellings of tragedies played as martyr's (o perfect one, tell me i'm holy, that i'm pure―) so perfect nobody can tell the difference. bloodshed and rose-dyed water are so hard to tell the difference between, one is sweet and one is sour / we don't trust things that taste like sugar, ethylene glycol ate our bones once, left is with missing teeth and broken hearts and fractured dreams.

maybe we're just two morons running around the world, burning street signs and trying to swallow the sun in all its golden glory―

eating away the flesh from decaying muscle, we look like polished ivory on the black market / ink stains our teeth orange like dying sunsets and moonshine sings a sour symphony under our tongues.

(maybe we've forgotten that we're mortal, maybe it's better that way; forget responsibility and let chaos lick our worries to nothing. we oughta burn everything up if the fire is in our hands anyway, don't'cha think? honey-boo-boo?)

patch me up, wipe the dirt from my skin and gauze the burns―maybe i'll forget you doused me in gasoline and sparked a match to begin with.

or maybe i'll run from that mountain / burn that bridge before we get there.