Flattered that you think I warrant ugliness. Gutters drain west, mud
made a mess of us. It's time to leave this place. I'd saw through your
wrist to find a better trap that fits. I'd saw through your traps to
find a better you, a part of you that lasts. I saw through your trap and
into my own wrists. Saw we were through, red ribbons spill to blue: a
sight to sore your eyes. I got this dress. I'm hiking it around this
waste of laughter. Slow dance alone with no one to the sound of four
hands clapping. Congratulations to you both, I hope somewhere you're
happy. If there's a moral to this story then I wish you'd show me. Hair
in the blood, fly in the disappointment. Rubber, I'm glue. I'll write
the book on you. It's sticking to my face. You need a little less than
what you take for granted. This is the sip that's drinking back from
you, blacking out your eyes. You need a little more suppression of your
appetites. This is your honeymoon, in separate rooms, it's neither sweet
nor bright. I made a word to give this state a name, this game a guess.
I call it "sluttering". It means as little as your little test. You are
your worst revenge. Your very means, they have no ends. This is a story
you won't tell the kids we'll never have. If you hear this song a
hundred times it still won't be enough.
