"the hairline fracture to your skull leaves a nice picture of the cold steel in the toe of my boot"




and the fear, the red paint fear is smeared on the walls in
your bedroom underneath canary yellow, pretty perfect,
prefect pretty wallpaper. tuck me into bed tonight. these
sheets are dripping with anxiety. this bedframe creaks with
secrets of lost innocence and lost lust and lost love. if
these walls could only speak. your whorish antics are
nothing new. no one is paying attention anymore. and the
carpet is stained with cheap red wine and all the colors we
spilled a million yesterdays, it was only yesterday ago. and
if you knew better, you wouldn't know any better. if these
walls could only speak. and for all those days off that you
spent in your empty house watching your empty television all
by your empty self. and the clutter on your dresser tops
screams of insecurity. as if being an attention whore wasn't
overrated enough. and this room always smells the same. it
always rieks of you. so give it to me beautiful. feed me
your sad childhood sob story. just keep talking if i laugh in your face. if these walls could only speak. i'm tired of
reading your shit work over and over, searching for
something interesting, something true. and that fear,that
red paint fear? it means nothing anymore. no one's paying
attention anymore.

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