Things I Thought About As I Got The Tram Away From Your House (Again)

I smoked cigarettes on the horizon that could be seen from the Vatican.
God watched,
his trembling hands heaving with pills,
my shimmering stare shook with the coming cascade.

It was the kind of day that would drift into a distant memory,
pinned down by my pen,
but nothing to write home about.
I was just watching the time tick by as I waited,
wasting time while my sadness matured into melodrama,
then melancholia,
dancing for hours under stars that had seen better days.

There’s a soft, sexual signal in the way I roll my death sticks along my plump lips,
following you with my doe eyes,
but you, like God, fill your fingertips with forget me nows and find yourself another plane to play on.
You lay beneath the lilac sky,
laughing at how I used to love a girl who’d pose with lighters for the aesthetic,
and you light me up another cigarette,
seemingly on board with my boorish plan to fade from the earth, at some point in the distant, disappointing future.

I’d rather be dead in the hands of heaven than alive where I cannot be free,
and I understand,
it’s not fair to thrill you like I do,
but I’m just doing what I need to do to keep you in pursuit,
because if you’re honest with yourself,
you love the chase,
and you hate when I get all chaste…

So, I’m a stupid, self destructive girl,
twirling trouble on her torrid tongue,
simply because she cannot stand to be alone.
You are so in sync with me,
eyes meeting,
so close that you can see the way that my tears linger, long after I brush them away.

I have nothing to give you but that which you know you shouldn’t want,
because when you were in my place,
my mother was still a child,
so you take your pills,
you wear your trousers, like a man,
you kiss me, like a woman,
you turn your eyes away from the hell you have unearthed, like a God.

Just fuck me and forget,
and I’ll smoke my cigarettes in the shadow of the holy city,
hoping that one day,
I’ll be honest about the things I want when I kneel down and pray.

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