ace-and-ink - Tumblr blog

[ace-and-ink]

oh, sister red. you weren’t even named

for your namesake, but for the blood

he would shed. do you miss the times

from before we met? when you were just

a speck across this interstellar dance hall

and we were just faceless bodies

that neither of us could name? when all we

could do was stare and dream? we are

the greenest, after all, and you

can tell from the envy we watch you with.

we push past our own little silver

sister, our own recently known flesh

and blood. how could we not

feel guilt, pushing her aside

in our pursuit of you? mysterious, red

maiden of the sky and stars. you

must’ve loved it before we knew you. before we

sent scout after scout, rovers only

there to tell us what we wanted

to know. before we mapped out every one

of your mountains and valleys and your

hot plains and cold poles. before we ran

our hands all over you so much

that they’re stained with the red dust

of your freckles. and we take more

pieces of you home. and more. and more. i don’t

think you can be whole again, but i don’t

want to tell you that honestly. but i can

tell you this: we don’t want

to take you home. we want to

move in. we’re so enamored

with you. we’re so enraptured

by your beauty. we’re so amazed

by the potential you have. that’s what it is,

that’s what i can tell you. it was

wonder, once. but it’s not love. we don’t

explore you because we love you. we are

greedy. we aim to amend

a wrong we have done upon ourselves

with you. if we can leave ourselves

behind in favor a future we can carve

into you, we’ll be content

for all of five centuries.

we see you and we want you

wholly and entirely.

i’m sorry.

— sister red

[ace-and-ink]

i know what this is like

i’ve tasted this part of life time and time again

two decades of experience

- barring the mandatory years of infant ignorance -

i have barely more than you it seems

but i know it, i know it well

surely it’s a phase

so i’m scared you’re gonna phase right through me

that i’ll reach out and ripple a reflection

only to find you trapped down there

unfair ophelia

leaving without taking me with you

i tripped over this by mistake

well, mistake isn’t the right word

that sounds like something that wasn’t supposed to happen

or that i didn’t want

it’s the type of mistake i guess

of wearing a sweater in a cramped elevator

from the ground to the roof

master of disguises you are, viola

any face of yours i could watch

and never grow tired

your words, my joan

i’ll take to heart

there’s a meta in your madness

until i lose you to your fire

but would you be scared to see and smell

all the smoke that comes from my mouth

i have so many confessions to give

like i love you, i love you

but i can’t risk chanting that to a crumpled car

so only if you sit here across the lawn

i’ll lament over all the times i could’ve said it earlier

and hope it ends a bit more to the tune of your tales

than the style of mine

— phase

[ace-and-ink]

when you read this i want you

to take a lighter to the bottom corner of the page

and let it eat my thoughts before you

can read them all

i struggle to write realistically

blatantly and honestly

and make it sound poetic

- just ask last notebook i wasted

it’ll tell you why i swore off it too -

i’ve run through about three scripts now

“how’re your poems going?”

“i’m going to a show this friday night and it’s free for us”

“any valentine’s day plans?”

throwing away all the cliches about hearts with those

i think the heart is like a bulb of garlic

small and firm in the palm of your hand

you have to peel back the layers

to get to what you want

and even then

you often have to crush it

to get to the best parts

to add to your little dinner called life

and a lot of people find it gross

when you smile and speak to them

with hints of it still on your breath and in your teeth

i had a dream with you there

then i rolled over and got nauseous

what does that make of this?

on the verge of my teenage years

you’d think i’d have more experience

instead all my works are about hurt

unless i’m fibbing to make something edible

i like getting wrapped up in your words

tangled in tragic romance

or in lines the color of tooth-ache

i’d let you pull my strings too

it wouldn’t take much but i’d let you poise me how you please

by your tongue and pen and face

does that count as a cliche?

i end up falling into those often

almost as much as i fall into this

and by the time you get to this point

my words will be nothing but ashes

or cinders or soot or whatever the right term is

i have faith in my longwindedness

to have stalled the confession long enough

for that’s what all this was

a poem of confession

using every word except the ones i mean

to tell you the one thing i’ve been dying to

and with this ending i hope

those words die too

taken to the wind with the shreds of this sheet

in hopes i can separate my love for you

from me

— slow burn

[ace-and-ink]

the collar and leash

ties me to you

because you insist that blood never could

orphaned war hound puppy on the side of the road

father’s eyes

mother’s teeth

makes some sort of savage out of me

with a mouth full of blood

they pin me the monster

and knowing nothing else

i tell them they’re right

hands over my mouth

loose fangs in their palms

poise nicely

sit pretty

legs crossed and hands folded

take the food gently like a good little beast

for i am a dangerous thing

or so i’ve spent my life being told

- and who can trust the words

that roll off the tongue of a creature

so i nod and say the same -

so i must be tame and go only where i’m lead

and keep my head down

as there’s little difference between

smiling and baring my teeth

— the nature of predators

[ace-and-ink]

it’s twelve am

it’s twelve am

do you know where your ribs are?

do you know where your blood’s going?

what are you staring at?

is it even in front of your eyes?

what’s the pounding inside you for?

what beast is your body protecting you from?

where’s the ringing coming from?

and where’s your security gone?

why does breathing tighten your chest

and every breath starts to hurt?

can you tell me something you see? hear?

smell? feel?

your body is a sludge

your muscles are a stone

the ooze of consciousness

eternally plagues you

can you tell the time on the clock

without falling into the swirl of its world?

drink your glass of water

and start a war in your tight throat

tell me something: now can you taste

the bile no longer buried in your gut?

is the burn of bringing it up and letting it pass

by your lips any bit sobering?

numb to the trembling fingertips

alert to the lightning nerves

you couldn’t even surround yourself with

so much smoke your red eyes can’t keep open

sit yourself down

and tell me where you go

the room is swimming

and you’re drowning

it’s twelve am

it’s twelve am

can you stay in your body?

can you listen to your mind?

— kinetosis

[ace-and-ink]

i want to pry your flesh apart

get it stuck under my nails

i wanna be doused in you

soaked to the bone

i want to scrape my teeth with your bones

give me your heart

and if you don’t i’ll rip it out anyway

i want to see the way you pulse

i need to know if your heart throbs

the same way mine does

if it flutters

if it pounds like that

with my name on your mind

if i had paid attention in anatomy

i’d know if your red oil rushes like that

flushing those round cheeks

was for love or loathe

and maybe i could know if

my fascination with the twitch

of your muscles

and forcing your guts to squirm

the way mine feel like they do

is based on the same

do i love the feel of your

veins tangled like twine

or do i enjoy the thrill of cutting my hands

on your splintered ribs

do i want to see you in shreds

or do i want to break down your parts

and learn you inside and out

the scream was lost in your throat forever ago

so only silence slips past your lips

cherry red and blackberry blue all at once

but your fingers curl on impact

and your nails dig into my skin

finally drawing my blood from me

it feels like it takes forever

for it to snake down my arms

droplets of me joining an ocean of you

isn’t that a bond of some sort

bleeding together

till death do us part

but as we draw it from start to end

is it a rival’s binding or something else

and if i say i want to feel

the sharpness your canines

if that means i can show you mine

to nibble on flesh and veins

to gnaw on bone and muscle

what does that make us

— dog bone

[ace-and-ink]

i groan “fuck me”

and i half hope you take me up on it

because i’m half hoping i can scrape some dopamine from it

but really we know i won’t

i won’t enjoy a minute

and i might come crawling out worse

but hey

it’s the thought that counts

if i think you do it to love me and help me

— scrapped lines pt. 15

[ace-and-ink]

i weep for the little frog on the curb

and i mourn for his poor squished body

you must’ve wailed

you must’ve sobbed

you must’ve prayed to whatever little frog god you have

though i wish i knew if you were begging for him

or cursing him for taking you

your mother is probably wondering where you are

your father is probably wonder where he went wrong

i too am a creature of god

not in that he is my father

but i am a creature in his domain

and there’s nothing i can do about it

i am more dangerous than a rabbit

but easier to kill

you enjoyed the cool, rainy nights

and so did i

and you loved the world for all her plants and water

and we liked to watch the same clouds in the same sky

would you accept help from my kind?

would it be any consolation

for me to scoop up your fragile little body

get some soggy dirt stuck under my fingernails

and lay you in there

let it keep you cool and moist until your little frog god

takes you home

— road toad

[ace-and-ink]

i love you like a noose loves the tree

i love the fact that one of us will kill me

hang ‘em high, out to dry

dance around the fact that i came here to die

i came here to die

to fling myself into the trap

of your arms and be stuck between your ribs

and rot away to feed you still

i love you like noose loves the tree

like a match loves the book

and to combust for the sake of friction

to give someone a few seconds of heat

i crawl back to you to die in your lap

to stain your skirt like the vulture’s possum

that you scooped up, inside out, from the roadside

for a few seconds of affection for a dying creature

a fish bites the hook and i tighten the noose

something holy awaits it as it ascends

i wait for gravity to bring me back

to my unholy little world

i’d love for you to let me die

the one form of love i tasked you with:

to slaughter me and butcher me

you’re both my noose and my tree

— still a love, still a death

[ace-and-ink]

i could see it overhead: the black mold

tarnish on a bleeding plum

sky too rich to be tooth ache. i know

not where i came from, but i know

it grabbed that innocent thing

with a talon’s grip as fierce as my

neglected retainer around my

teeth. the childlike squeals could

only be imprinted on your brain

because the siren squawk of unfair

power craved its way into your ears

instead. but who was more

a monster: the wings, or the speaker,

who could feel neither fury

nor anguish when the little one

was dropped to the hogs? if the earth

didn’t take it back on the way

down or by the impact, then there

was no hope for those juvenile whiskers

to be spared from being speared

by the boar tusks, sharper

than the mountains on the backdrop. i was

filled with nothing, but i was given

a purpose by whatever thing controls me

that i’ll never understand, but

then, so might’ve the bird. maybe

it was as empty a husk as i, and the only

missive it carried was “this creature

needs to die.” a puppet only gets this

clarity after its show ends, when it can see

the puppeteer after he drops the strings

it was strangled with. and so we played

our parts in his show, drawn

to the same eternal center: some eye

of devotion lost to time. the remnants

of a passion, some reverence, now

nothing more than stones retaken

by mother nature. but with no god

left to claim it, it’s become my weapon,

just as it might’ve been for the bird

when it was alive. and it sat

there, brown spot on the emerald

green plains (which is a shitty comparison,

actually; when i think of emeralds, i don’t

think of a color that deep and rich).

though it was squared, engraved

with diamonds, dots, jagged

dashes, made half the home of moss,

the edges were smoothed and it felt right

in my heads and over my head

and i became cain. it went up, then came

down with more fervor than gravity

can justify (but what do i know; i started

crying when my best friend tried to

teach me physics last year). the best

worst part was that i could feel

the crunch through my whole body. the perfect

leaf on the sidewalk under my

feet. cracking stiff knuckles. a glass bottle

against a brick wall. an eggshell

in the palm of my hand. the sound

and the feeling sent a shiver to and through

my toes. and so i swung again. there might’ve

been a third, but by then the only one

that could witness was the old abandoned god.

somehow, that beady, yellow eye could still

stare back at me, and it did. yellow

and black and mimicking the sun. there

it sat, dead, decimated, the symbol of

freedom and ferocity and every war

it picked and lost. i left it there

in a crimson stain. i never thought

to bury it. i put the rock, a remnant

of the shrine, back where it was. it didn’t

match the imprint from its ages of sleep; if nothing

else remains by then, someone will come

by and say “something happened here” and who knows

what they’ll think of it. or maybe the blood

on the rock and the moss will dry

and it will become the new

way of life, the eagle the new patron

of sabotage. the soil already began becoming

the bird’s coffin. i watched the way the earth

was too eager to claim it and i

wondered just how much our dreams define us.

— fly, my friends, i have my death wound

[ace-and-ink]

i don’t miss being young

i miss being happy

and i miss you being proud of me

can i be that straight with you?

you didn’t start asking until it was wrapped up

in fancy words and stanzas

do you need a little sugar for the truth to go down?

i think you should take it whole

because i always had to from you

choke on it with your pills every morning

if that’s what it takes for you to know me now

you look at me with a sort of melancholy

that is anything but sober

but through the green eyes i share with you

even i can see that i can’t be your image of perfection anymore

i don’t know who i am

but i’m glad that i’m not you

and man, aren’t you glad too?

with all i’m messing with

and all i’ve labeled myself with

i simply can’t be your second image anymore

and that means i’ve done what i’ve needed to

sorry, father

but i’m leaving your garden

and i’m dragging my memories with me through the gate

i won’t say i don’t love you

it’s been too long for me to believe myself if i do

but it’s more than that

i can’t be on your leash and i know you’d love to keep me there

there’s a reason i kept running when you opened the door

instead of running back around to the front of the house

i have to still love you

but i look back on every fond thing i’ve written

about you with gritted teeth

if i can only live once

i don’t want to waste it living for you

— spitting on the spitting image

[ace-and-ink]

it’s february now

but you won’t get to this until long after

it’s cupid’s month, isn’t it?

let me decorate for the occasion

here are some columbines for you

and i’d offer you violets, but i’m afraid

they’ve all wilted by now

and i can’t promise i won’t keep

glancing at the back of her head

not like i am

when my heart doesn’t have something else to beat for

and i was gonna write about how

“there are too many heart cards in the standard deck

because that much love doesn’t go around so easily”

but i thought that was too harsh a line

i wanted this session to start a little nicer than usual

but this is like all the other “sit and spit” sessions

where i start going on about unimportant aching

and you’re gonna think me a desperate fool by the end

and i wouldn’t say you’re wrong

and do i really need what i’m begging you for?

it’s like when you hide under a tree

but the rain ends up hitting you harder

i don’t need a savior i need you to take me home

and that’s another line i stole

from a better poet than me

and a better woman than i’ll ever be

and she reads me so well

even though she has no way too

and isn’t that funny?

being so well-known by a stranger

i’d never have a chance to know back

because you can’t bank on the writing

you can’t trust them to tell the truth

fuck, you don’t even know if i’m begging honestly

and maybe if i was i’d lie to you in-person, too

but it’d be nice if you could think you know me

if we could at least pretend you can

read me like an open book

left open to mark someone’s spot in their story

and their spot in the library

and who knows if they’re coming back for it

god knows i sat there open and waiting

hoping she’d come back for me

will you do me a little better than her?

take off that loud, decorative jacket and

take me home

enjoy me in the quiet

pour over me by lamplight well past your bedtime

and maybe you won’t remember my contents

in a year’s time

but hey, maybe you’ll enjoy me so much

that you can find fun in discovering me all over again

and i’ll gather dust on your bookshelf until then

will i enjoy it? i tell myself i do

just so i don’t have to barter to someone else again

and i’ll tell you it’s all okay

because i’m a liar, remember?

i told you that part already

and you’re gone by now

who sits this long to read a poem?

i made you believe it was a love poem

hook and line

but it’s so obvious my love isn’t conventional

and i need someone to sob to anyhow

so entertain me just this one night

hold me read me

treat me like your favorite thing for one night

so i can move on through this lovers’ day

because my hollowness isn’t your concern tomorrow

and i’d wallow in it anyway

get all clean and pretty

just to dive back into the mud pool

that’s just the cycle of life

when you dedicate yours to love

isn’t it? all hurt and hope

and i’ll let you go now

before i start to sound like hamlet

hold my own skull

and ah, poor yoric,

i knew her well

— hang me by my heartstrings

[ace-and-ink]

“i have the queue backed up to march, i can finish this by then.”

well it’s march 12th now and i only have like 12 poems from my backlog finished 💀

anyway stew on my older stuff while i “catch up” again

[ace-and-ink]

i’m fine with gore but that poem made me want to puke. it might’ve been the body or it might’ve been the boy. how he touched her insides on the outside and never asked. and sure, she let him, but surely he could see that she trusted him and he still made her the villain for hiding the best parts of herself and the way she kept them from his hands. every day i thank something up there that i never let them touch me like that. the way they brag about being touched. and it’s a cool, cool party, i hope i don’t come back again. and i wanna use a big word and make you think i’m a good writer. i wanna paint an image that’s as visceral as a car wreck and make you squirm like it’s your organs being fondled. yet still she doesn’t turn the speaker off. we’re not just sharing our voices anymore. she’s sitting on the corner of her bed and i’m howling. the lyrics are pouring from my throat like the bile they fed to me without feeding me. the wall is a hypothetical that may not have touched me yet but i can see that it might’ve. maybe she doesn’t turn the speaker down and hears my raw chords to hear my bleeding and coughing chest. maybe she turns the speaker up and keeps me from tainting the song any further. all the women in my class cross their legs. all the dudes slouch in their chair and spread their legs. i can look the part, but i can’t hide the queer. call me L. call me A. call me NB. call me Q for short. she nodded along when the sexualization of bisexuals was brought up. i want to sit down in front of her and ask “What are you? What are you? What are you? Is it my place to know? Would i understand if you told me? Do i have a chance with you?” is what i really want to ask. if i could say what i meant would they get it. would it be worth the isolation. drunk boys in ice cream shops. i wrote about them as a warm-up. i’m tired of them. it’s not their job to know right away but that doesn’t mean i can’t be annoyed. i haven’t gone out to get it in a while. she promised she was sober as she pulled a bottle of wine from her purse. tired. that’s what i always am. of having too much time. of not having enough. of certain people. of coughing so close to me. of not having certain people. of the thought of certain people. of never having the balls to man up and ask. just literally tired. no sleep is enough. i wish i knew how to end this poem. poems don’t have neat endings. that was lesson one. it ends when it needs to end. but art’s never really finished. the majority of playwriting is rewriting. so i guess i’ll keep talking. i said three sentences. six words. my heart was beating out of my chest. i’m not allowed to use abstractions, so i hope this is literal enough: i realized my dad was right when he said i needed to be on his anxiety meds “just to take the edge off.” i want to be able to write about someone the way Lucy Dacus does in Home Video. Hang Me Like Jesus still fucks me up. i don’t cry to Damocles anymore but i wrote about it the other day. i like rocks and rock. and rats. and women. i’m half on youtube half in my notes and now my phone is burning up. i tried typing “phone is” and my phone number came up in auto suggestions. how did this poem start again. how did we get here. do we like it here. do we want to stay here. i think i like it here. i’m never sure of anything.

— a practice in line breaks and not making sense

[ace-and-ink]

the other day

(i almost called it yesterday)

i wrote a poem after class

called it a warm-up

called it cards

i did everything my professor said i shouldn’t

took advice from my writing professor

who said

“here are a list of writing rules

go break every single one of them”

i’ll take this one slower

because my theatre class got out early

and i got to eat this time

the soda fountain was busted

the cherry coke wasn’t that

we read of those who wrote

with inspiration of art

i’ll never write like

the way orphan made me feel

i hear i song

and i cry

and i steal half their lines

want me to do it again?

i’ll list what i’m listening to

“take it from me

i’m not looking for anybody

i’m sick of car rides

you lied while we lay back to side”

my friend (?????)

[for our audio listeners

if you’re ever out there

there’s a series of question marks

because i don’t know

what i want her to be]

said goodbye to me as she left

and i couldn’t catch her

i had to fix my desk

i sat with a pretty girl today

she reminds me of my old friend

the one i’ve written about before

the one i’ve compared myself to with a dying moth

i wish she’d look at me like she did

she smiled at the end

before fumbling her papers

and i almost relapsed on the spot

i saw a pretty girl in my building

she lives a floor above me

i think about how my elevator sometimes

doesn’t say what floor it was going to

and i always have to double check

i wonder what system it uses

or if it just didn’t want to say it

if it skipped a line on accident

if it just had too much going on at once

i don’t think i can call this a poem

what if i call myself a moth again?

i use dogs too often

my hair looked decent when

i left the bathroom this morning

i saw my reflection when the poem wouldn’t load

and i think i almost lost three years of progress

that girl was from here

in this city i’m familiar yet foreign to

i reread my own poem

and i’ve suddenly never used a metaphor in my life

i talked about rocks

and i wrote about moths

i’ll only be a hit online

- by online i mean i’ll get clicks

from my one online friend -

my roommate always keeps the door open

the same friend from before had her room rekeyed

i don’t know how to make this a poem

my professor would never take this

i keep getting snapchat notifications

of my old teammates from home

celebrating each other’s birthdays

i almost don’t even go home for mine

so should i use a simile?

should i add a metaphor?

i can’t say i agree with holly in that song right now

i can’t drive

but they’ve lied while we laid together

and they’re still going on about getting high

let’s see

what can i say here?

i feel like a fish in a fishbowl

- there’s my vehicle -

i can see everything i want

but i can’t get to any of it

- there’s my tenor -

my writing class made me feel

like i at least have a chance

so far poetry

has made me feel like i’ve been fooling myself

i can’t call this poetry

i can’t say i’m good at all

which isn’t the problem

it’s that i don’t feel like i can be

i’m laying in bed

the brain killer

and now i don’t want to go to geology

which isn’t for another hour

i’ll call this a warm-up

like i do

being the fraud artist i am

saying every piece i don’t like

was a practice sketch

so i don’t have to claim it

hey if i add a period here

can i call this all enjambment?

ah shit nevermind

there it goes

i’ll end it on this

anyway.

— warm-up: tenor

[ace-and-ink]

i don’t think love is in the cards for me this year

when have i let a card rule me?

credit cards, i guess

debit cards,

draw fours,

get out of jail free cards

there’s a heart in the standard deck

would i have to start using “ace of hearts” for myself?

because that means something different

they all mean something

they mean something to people like me

the suit is red

does that means hearts are red?

does that mean love is red?

blood is red

our hearts feed us that

blood is such a raw metaphor

but cannibalism as desire is cliche now, isn’t it?

so it must be a sharp shade of pink

pink means something to me

those ribbons took my mother from me

it’s genetic but supposedly it’ll miss me

i have my breasts and i’m proud of them

but the world is not

i’ve seen girls suffer for less

i’ve seen girls suffer for more

what is pink-red that is good?

cherries are nice

they have a shade of red all their own

i like cherries

and red, ambiguously flavored, supposedly cherry things

the cherry coke fountain

spits it’s product more violently than the lemonade fountain

is one more loved than the other

or is it just the nature of how they are?

is all poetry melancholic or mythical

or is just the nature of how it is?

i write poetry in the loosest sense of the word

i’m a woman in the loosest sense of the word

women are thought to be the love-obsessed ones

you think of rom-coms

and the woman chases the man that’s out of her league

and she also makes the questionable choices

both in men and in behavior

you’ll hear love poems and assume it’s from a woman

when i open a door

i hold it with my hand

and i push with my whole body

when i meet another woman

i greet her with a smile

and i fall with my whole heart

i don’t think love is in the cards for me this year

— warm up: cards

[ace-and-ink]

it’s always fucking something, isn’t it?

the story of my life

is one of tragedy

depending who you ask

but if i paint myself the blasphemer

say it’s the work of a greater god

and he’s putting me in my place

the church used to clap

but when i fold my hands of my own volition

i refuse to pray to him

i’ve made myself my savior

either i pull myself through this

or no one can say i never tried

but i still forget that 11 year olds are still children

because i forgot that i was supposed to still be one

but i

i don’t really mind

happens all the time

and now no one’ll let me cry

well

i guess that that’s a lie

it’s never said but it’s implied

so i’ll hold on until i die

hang me by the foot

call me the fool

and wave it high

i’m a warning sign

of youth that’s gone awry

the first time i drove back to my hometown was my birthday

but i wouldn’t have gone if it wasn’t my best friend’s too

but we didn’t even spend it there

we left to the state to the west

we escaped our families and our homes

yet we failed that escape room

but still

when was the last time

that

i

felt

excited?

it looks could kill

then maybe i’d

finally find out

what i look like

i’ve got a big mouth

and i can’t keep it shut

i’ve got big eyes

and i can’t keep contact

i’ve got a big nose

and i can’t fucking draw it

i used to love to sing

but my brain always betrays me

and i haven’t sang for someone

other than happy birthday

in almost ten years

i used to love to draw

but my classes killed that for me

so now my writing is my crutch

except the world doesn’t value it

so at least everyone says

the way my body was

back then

when i felt hopeful

it could change

time and work would never save me

but the world

at least as it was online

only got louder

and all my work

was never enough

not for anyone

not for myself

i’ll hold my chin up

cross my fingers

when i tell you i’ll do better

but i’ll hold your hand when you need me to

i’ll do anything you ask of me

and i’ll do it with a

smile!

my

pretty little life

said i didn’t mind

but jesus christ

i always lie!

i’ll carry my head high

i’ll paint on another smile

i’ll be your perfect idol

and i’ll let you hang me upside down

parade me around

the ideal fool

i’ve always been

the panicked one

“be back by 9”

“call me when you’re home”

i know my mother

took that primal joy of mine

when she left us that summer afternoon

left us with those glossy eyes

that cold body

and that hospital bed in the middle of her room

i’ve held my own hand

and people want me

to let them hold mine too

we both know i’ll dig my own grave

i’ll be driving my own hearse

i’ll throw myself out to sea

just like we threw her too

cause who

else would

if i

can’t let my

guard

down?

cause who

would have

if

she

wasn’t

around?

i hope i crash my fucking car

i hope a deer takes me with it

i hope i haunt the tree i nail

i hope you see me in the roadkill

i hope you choke on my memories

i hope you flinch on the side of the bridge

anything i can do for you

you know i’d do it with a

— taking inspiration from an inspiration means there’s not enough left for me to name this the same