I fell asleep in an acid bath of depression that ate away my skin and burned a hole through my esophagus. People called it a suicide attempt. I skipped art for a week after that.
You found my undead corpse filling lemonade cans with vodka on the way to the bus stop that always smelled a bit too much like the cigarettes my father used to smoke,
And you stitched up my wrists with your frayed, dirty shoelaces that stained my veins with a hopelessness that spread from my fingertips to my spine.
Fast forward a month and we were torturing ourselves just to feel again. We strangled ourselves with seatbelts instead of driving off a cliff because that takes a level of commitment that neither of us had.
But I need change like you need a quick fuck. The love we wrote about in chalk got washed away by your tongue when you shoved it down her throat and was painted over by the blood dripping out my skull onto the pavement after I jumped off of your roof.
March 4, 1949 - Dr. Keith Simpson, pathologist working with Scotland Yard, and his secretary, Jean Scott Dunn, examine remains found in an abandoned factory in Crawley, Sussex, in relation to the Acid Bath Murderer, John George Haigh
Keep thinking tears won’t burn your heart
Profess love with expensive eyes
Rimmed privilege, insist it’s all good
Pangaea returns through cables
Connect my home to yours to theirs
Now we share the same acid bath