if this is you i’d rather be dead.
burnt at the stake and served as toast in a greasy diner full of hangovers.
i’d rather be crisp, fried, served with eggs. fuck the jam, just butter please. jam reminds me of your sister and she was always kind of a bitch.
the one time you took me anywhere was to that diner. there was brie in my omelet, but they forgot to give me a fork and i forgot to bring the part of me that knows how and when and why to say no.
no, if this is you i’d rather be crying.
screaming while my flesh peels away, revealing lungs asphyxiating on smoke from fat logs like fat lies.
i would inhale your fat lies without a filter, desperate for the caustic nicotine of your attention. they haven’t developed a patch or a gum for attention addiction yet, so i had to kick you cold turkey.
somedays i still want to take long drag of lies just to feel the heat in my chest, but then i remember how you made my fingers smell and i choose to light myself instead.