I sometimes dance alone in my room,
screaming to the lyrics being fed through my speakers
pretending he can see me
through the light layer of dirt covering my window,
and I pray to whatever god there is that he secretly
does the same.

But the devil knows he doesn't.

I don't come here often
since that last moment he was here.

Well, sometimes.
But it's only because of the way he made me smaller
before he touched my hips.

Your therapy is a mind fuck without GHB
[that I forgot to put in the vodka this morning]
That was the only way to go-
drunk or high or dead bodied
walking against brick walls until you hit a corner,
ragged and broken chips of rock stucking to your shirt,
and have to manuveur your way around the points
until you realize there is someone on the otherside
doing the same thing.
collisioncollisioncollision
And he is still shouting he loves me from five stories up.

I want to live on the deserted beaches of New Jersey
and walk on the sand full of broken needles
and burnt out roaches
because this is how I want my story to be told
ten.five.ortwo years from now.
And the requests will come
in waves of thousands
-from women and men who forgot where they hung their hearts
and devotion-
for my compilation cd/tape/mp3
because people will want to hear my voice
as I dance alone in my room, screaming,
"Cheers to life and destroying it."