Flattered that you think I warrant ugliness. Gutters
drain west, mud made a mess of us. It's time to leave
this place. I'd saw through your wrist to find a
better trap that fits. I'd saw through your traps to
find a better you, a part of you that lasts. I saw
through your trap and into my own wrists. Saw we were
through, red ribbons spill to blue: a sight to sore
your eyes. I got this dress. I'm hiking it around
this waste of laughter. Slow dance alone with no one
to the sound of four hands clapping. Congratulations
to you both, I hope somewhere you're happy. If
there's a moral to this story then I wish you'd show
me. Hair in the blood, fly in the disappointment.
Rubber, I'm glue. I'll write the book on you. It's
sticking to my face. You need a little less than what
you take for granted. This is the sip that's drinking
back from you, blacking out your eyes. You need a
little more suppression of your appetites. This is
your honeymoon, in separate rooms, it's neither sweet
nor bright. I made a word to give this state a name,
this game a guess. I call it "sluttering". It means
as little as your little test. You are your worst
revenge. Your very means, they have no ends. This is
a story you won't tell the kids we'll never have. If
you hear this song a hundred times it still won't be
enough.
More Sluttering (May 4th)
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Rating: 2.88, 8 votes
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