You are a flawed machine," she said. "
Hope that's worth something." We always clashed, even when we wore nothing.
I said, "
Hell yeah, you look so good when you're crumbling." The gloss and grandeur of molding tangerines and trashy magazines.
You're fake, baby, so he can just take you home.
Fake, baby.
Blood crazy.
Pinprick wire mom.
Dead daisy.
Where do you get off upstaging and replacing me?
My eyes are crossed, my will is lost and I'm wasted.
Every queasy thought I've had is inflated.
I puke onstage and slip, face plant and I'm faced with the acid reflux remains of subjective truth.
Still, I always knew.
Beneath your bombast and the humor of syntax, in carbonite, a human being.
Once you saw through me, but now I'm an employee.
So sick of it, tired and wizened and free.