Welcome back to the shitshow. I’ll finger you like it’s our last night out at McCooley’s. My head swirls with liquor stained imagery. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. It’s a postmodern existential crisis at its finest.
If one more person takes a crap selfie, gives it a shit caption and slaps it on Instagram, then I’m becoming a cocaine addicted hermit who lives in caves. You will only be able to contact me via messenger pigeons.
Now sweetie, we’re both horny so let’s fuck in my university kitchen with the blinds up. Your body is too beautiful not to be seen by the world, that we can both agree on.
I consider this my gory business; the exchanging of words and promises for the most decaying yet pearlescent moments.
The drawn out, rakish behaviour that haunts my unbetrothed soul, really ought to be held accountable for the mess.
Are you truly here anymore, my love? I can’t tell anymore. This tenpenny back and forth got us to the forefront of what the critics consider a lover’s quarrel. Now we’re stuck in retrograde and I don’t think there’s any time left on our clock.
Wait a bloody minute I swear I butchered stability some time ago, What am I doing here? All those around her hate me. The shit hit the fan. I tried to hang myself and all I remember is silent sobs of hopelessness, most likely mine.
This isn’t a cry for help, this is just fun and games now.
I might throw up and put it on Instagram
I might do a line in the Tate as performance art
Come and join the gory reclamation.
All these dirty feelings. A black eye here, damaged lungs there. I’ve been around and seen some horrors, shaken hands with an oil spill and drunkenly stumbled into your heart.
Stop telling me I’m being a dick, I already know I am.
I guess this is genuineness breaking through; the last molecule of hope has just slashed its wrists right in front of me. Whilst despair is stroking my face and leading me deeper into the anal canal of my abyss.
Stop trying to save me. Leave me the fuck alone. I’m here for sex I believe, not feelings. Stay the fuck out of my personal life.
I’ve created a bloody and salacious stain on the carpet of my id.
The end of my world is the place to be: there’s an assortment of twerking asses, heroin abusing foetuses talking to me about Radiohead’s Ok Computer, bloody wrists and lots of kinky sex.
Baby cuff me to the bed and suffocate me with your pussy. What a beautiful fucking way to go.
I think I had a dream about you again Madison. I’m playing Deep End and my minds stuck on you. I know those Canadian winters are harsh, meanwhile the empty streets back here are something to behold. You’ve been dealt some shit hands. I wish I could have changed it for you. There are not enough souls in the world I’d sell to fix this fuck up. I think the moment was you and me so I’ll never truly forgive myself. It was never about you, it was me. Shit maybe I’ll fix this one day, for now I’m sticking to the alternatives, makes it easier, you know. I’m sorry is all I can manage. You’ve got permission to bite my head off one day, I just want you to move forward with your life and remember you’re more than your past. Next time you’re drinking, think of me, because the odds aren’t in our favour, but memories count for something. You know that better than most people.
Fucking hell time’s running on and I’m stuck in the agonising undertow of your indecision. Sometimes I can’t see anything else but the pain and horror that’s consumed everything around me.