This Ain't No Slumber Party

No, I don’t want any honey in my tea, honey – my shit’s sweet enough, I trail glitter rainbows behind me. Sure and it’s nice to see you, but I’d rather see you with your eyes blank, slow trail of blood from the corner of your mouth. We sit in this haze and watch the starbust explosion of lighters in the night.

No, I don’t need no sugar. I was born with all I need. I am the invisible, dancing clown. I am the shy narcissicist of your nightmares, glaring, demanding recognition and shrinking in it’s glare. I’d know that smell anywhere.

Yeah, pass it this way. I’ll be a stop on the journey. Round the bend, Hep C in hand – sure it’s a shitty deal, but I don’t give a damn. Nothing matters when the curtain falls except that after-image. Like staring at a lightbulb. As long as you don’t look away, the image gets burned there. My salvation lives because I don’t look away.

I can’t stop scratching my arms and they’re bleeding. That don’t matter either. We live with that. We are used to being covered in blood, vomit, shit, and false optimism that fades like a prom corsage. Hell, at this point being clean would make me feel dirty.

I don’t appreciate the subtext. Like I  brought us here. You were some innocent that got corrupted. That may play fine in your parents living room where I’m the devil, but it don’t cut mustard here. Take it on down the line, but don’t wonder why everyone is goofing on ya.

I never made you do nothing you didn’t want to do. If anything, it was the other way around. I loved you, so I followed you, pathetic, lost puppy shit. I think about it now and my face turns red and I can’t hardly breathe.

No, I don’t like your friends. Fine. Your friends are rich, priveleged fucking idiots. Sure, they get good shit, but they’re like kids – this ain’t no fucking slumber party. I don’t want to play cards, I don’t want nothing but to sit here and scratch this itch.

Yeah, we’re dying. You know it and I know it. Fucking dying on the vine. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and your ribs are third world ribs. That’s a shitty thing to say, but we’re living shitty, baby. Sitting pretty. Sometimes we need to be macabre. It is all we have left, this shoulder-chip con. Turn the fucking TV off, it’s time to turn on.