the drunken ballad

Sat on the sink—boiling in the middle of the fog. Yes. Yes. Everything is crystal clear now, yes, yes. Can you feel it? When we self-inflict wrinkles upon our bodies—the faux peaux you wear like a coat, one you'd beg anyone, so desperately, to rip from your skin. Yes, yes, everything is so clear now—she is alive, she is the very same girl—grasping the same rotten dreams between her trembling hands. Look at what is left before you go, before you soak your body beneath the showerhead—before you beg for "it" to cleanse your remains. Wise enough to walk away, but far too drunk to follow the right tides.

Run your fingers through your hair—can you smell the smoke, curling, dancing around the locks as you scrub your scalp? You dirty bastard. The filth within can never be ignored; it could never be spared—not even if you peeled yourself raw, stripped yourself down to the marrow. Tarnished by tar, you could never be saved—not even by the stardust you clutch between your palms.

Get out of there while you can still think straight.

Yes, yes, I can see.

I see it all.