It’s nothing but a fast-paced
dance for the dead.
Voices tangle together
as they stretch out for the sky,
wanting,
desiring,
despairing and enraged.

“It’ll always be better next month,”
you tell me.
I can’t help but remember
my friend,
bloated form
and six feet under.
“It’ll be better next month,”
she told me.
She told me,
and she died.

And you,
you helpless child
who chose not to grow
if only
out of the fear of being hurt.
I can’t blame you
for your tantrums;
you’re alone,
or so you feel,
but don’t you think
it’s about time
for you to step back
and take a hold of life
before it gets away?
I might shrug it off
but the words wound me,
and I don’t take kindly
to being broken
when it’s not of my own accord.

And you!
You, you idiot woman,
racing off with the desire
to take your life.
You missed, didn’t you?
You missed your destination
because you sent another
to take your place.
You idiot woman,
selfish and afraid.
You add to my faults
as much as any other.

And You.
You, who started this
downhill race.
You can’t imagine
just how much
I want to reach back in time
to when we were “together,”
and tear out
that lying tongue of yours.
You can’t imagine.
I hate the feeling you’ve left in me.
There’s no hatred;
only cold vengeance.

And you,
and you,
and you and you and you.
All of you
who hold me up,
and all of you
who throw me down.
It’s over,
don’t you see?
It’s Over.

So pull the trigger,
pull the trigger,
shoot me down
and burrow deeper
into my bones;
leave me bleeding
to the sound
of your love screaming.

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