We are 

Wet single ply paper is sticking to the counter,

and we are counting empty soap dispensers.

But who is washing their filthy hands anyway.

 

Her apartment keys are on a department store key ring,

and  her expensive rings are on worthless fingers.

 

Painting the town with our rusty personalities and body glitter.

Yet we feel our best when we have been stripped down to nothing.

Stripping for anyone and everyone,

we are claiming empowerment.

 

 

We are messy girls in velvet dresses,

and well dressed girls in messy situations.

Buying shots we cannot afford.

Spiralling out of control in a city far from mom and dad.

 

We are starving and haven’t eaten in 17 hours.

We’ve been up all night smashing our delicate faces off the wall,

and grinding our weak yellow teeth until they crack and crumble.

We are swallowing parts of our teeth with little pills

and this help our stomach contents stay down.

 

We are going down on our friends,

and feeling utterly used.

We are painting the sheets with worthless fingers and broken toes.

 

We are practicing and painting , but getting no where.

Wearing out the brushes,

and brushing out knotted and dyed hair.

We are dying to get out of this fucking place.

 

 

feast

her heart wasn’t steady

a ship in a storm

your constant tugging of doubt

porcelain in versace heels

shining and talking politely

medication and daddy issues

is this what could have been?

 

dress never wrinkled

reasonably educated

a muse for your artistic endeavours

manic

pixie

dream

girl

 

shes falling and

grasping on bodies and trying to get back up

tripping and slipping and

holding onto the warmth of blood to blood

 

spaced out

close to death

close to pain

raw throat

wishing she could go back to those times

slamming on the cement

in the bathroom you are trying to stop her

knuckles bruised

bleeding and blacking out and bleeding

not back there

she cannot go back there

you wont have it

 

matters are tough

and feelings  are sharp

shallow pangs

you feel nothing

she is rotting

flies on the meat

swirling and feasting

 

 

 

winding 

Inflatable dreams at needle point aching to be popped

The angry pro stitchers fingers are getting sweaty grasping at the tiny needle

Their milk crates are dented from constant pressure and continued sitting

 

Thick dreams at night with orgies and oozing glitter

The stiff buttons are hard to press

Yet so satisfying to touch

And take-out fries are never the same as crisp virgin ones

Mouths salivating at the thought

Anxiety builds and the glitter orgy ends

 

Run your hands on the picnic tables getting as many slivers as you possibly can

Slur your words from the pain of the wood chips embedded in your skin

Wooden floors drip with blood

An endless search for the first aid kit

Iced hands that feel as heavy as blocks of wood

 

Those cigarettes are eaten for 20 dollar bills and the party begins to pick up

Grayscale nights with a bossy little personality to match

Crisp floating memories weighing heavy on your chest

your head

and your back