Leave your pound of flesh by the door, coaxing out my demons;
The scent of revenge drags them out from six feet under, the coffins of the undead hopes.
Red blood, black hearse, the night sky an ink of submission.
When our lives are over,
And all that remains- our skulls and bones
Let’s take it to the grave.
In the haze of nicotine and street lamps, by broken bottles I lie,
In the gutter where you left my mind
Searching frantically for the darkness you took from me.
Apathy infused in my system, the blood-alcohol level that cheated me out of a road crash death.
I lie instead, on the cold asphalt staring at a heaven that has never been so far away.
I remember you, the way you taught me to, in the bite of the needle, the tightening of the compress and the flood,
I climbed up the drain pipe of death’s house
Saw you make love to him,
My breath fogging the glass as I watched
Your porcelain skin with its black blood,
Rush into my head.
In your final throes, when your gaze catches mine, I am back again,
In my six by two home under the ground, seeing through the dark orbs into your empty soul;
Falling and flying, down to the earth,
I’d be buried here with you.
The song in italics is Skulls by Bastille.