I wanna dress like an oxymoron
just like I've been most of my life,
and leave the parasitic past behind,
concentrate on the blood of the future.
in sinks of bathrooms,
we admit that we admit that we aren't special,
and my tongue ties my heart
in abnormal knots.
it hurts to hurt this good,
but love is like landscaping,
letting Mexicans do all the work
while we walk away and wish for hedges.
I wanna believe in leaving
while leaves are falling,
and I am fucking filled with grace
and there is no such thing as intestine dreams.
is this the thing that question marks question?
I have no fucking idea, besides rooms as wounds,
because as our tryst taught us,
no one gets out alive.