halloween note
if i have no one to share my music with i swear to christ i’ll hold my breath and retreat under pumpkin seeds and fake blood having been that boy with exhausted eyes and dyed hair that didn’t give a fuck about their tableware or golf trophies i just loved their daughter madly and swept her away into dazzling conversations in moldy hotel rooms on shoebox boulevard and forced drugs into her heart and fastfood paid with cupholder quarters into her hips and took her vertical up the snowcaps where she forced her tongue into me and the fall fell on scabbed lips and fishnets scaled down miniskirts and post-rock explosions in borrowed cars where red wine with screw off caps swished from mouth to mouth and the fall fell on black cat snap shots and spider bites on median pissing trees and cd tracks numbered 8 and then i saw her in a profile picture in an orange dress wearing a suntan and her hair only one shade of blonde and straight as the model’s on the dye boxes in our pale year of unwashed underwear that she’d wear to work two days in a row without a thought of sleep and fingering herself on lunch breaks for the endorphins while on the phone with me and she said i ruined her and i hope that’s true having been two sheets of paper crumpled up together before being rehabilitated unfolded and pressed between bible passages but they could never smooth the creases that unpleasantly match my own perfectly and perfect pretty men with perfect hair keep their hands between her knees and she keeps circles of friends that link like those stapled construction paper halloween wreathes draped on wall hooks and full of just as much joy as the christmas ones oh where’s all her mascara gone her tattoo ideas her cold coughs and blanket walls her anemic wrists and protruding ribs and who’s she told about her mother-forced abortions and dollar bills with dates and phrases like never forget or you’re my princess and too many times I’ve taken those songs and blasted them for pop ears with snarled lips they just don’t get it I hope she’s newlywed now and four a.m. fevered mirror apathetic and back against the bedroom wall on the floor with a flickering chandelier and tears and I hope she’s electric heater dependent and falling out of well-worn underwear in erotic ways and eating oreos on bed sheets and watching black and white horror flicks for her I’ll carve a jack-o-lantern in that insane artistic way where I make things look like music sounds and blow minds in those days she’d sit on my back and find the knot in my neck and run her finger down the tips of my spine discussing arcimboldo monet and bj sextape angles and she’d share her fondness for the old new england coast architecture and witchcraft and the terrible novels she’s been force fed and the dumbshits in class who loved them
