He goes to bed high
With a glass of water
And a handful of pills.
He speaks to me of dead angels
That fly through my eyes,
Tender, dark green skies.
He sees me dying slowly,
And he�s suffering these losses,
As if I could stop
The way emotions
Brush against my bleeding lips,
He tastes like liquor
And the rotted lust of weed
And he smells like sweat and cologne,
Testosterone,
Confusion,
Cracked flesh for the third time
Like the moment I forgot
To tell him love was something
I would never be able to give.
His is mine, mine is his,
We all take the same
In this wretched place,
Four peeling walls, graffiti marked,
Closing in on the smell of urine
And stenches of cigarette and marijuana smoke.
A bottle -broken vodka
Shatters against my weeping face,
Like the tears I hide
From his desperately lost concerns.
I watch him stand,
Trying to function beyond effects and focus
And he�s crying again,
His arms around me.
Crying vomiting dying pathetic
High drunk sick lethargic
And he�s fucking dying again.
He�s fucking dying.

Gehenna�1997

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