Idealistic Sanctimonious Bullshit

I want to write my eulogy painted on a tin roof
of over-emphasized lyricists drowning in fervor,
passion and flame.

A conduit of my senses.

It was just today that I noticed that the posters
on the wall are crooked. Maybe it is I that is
crooked and the wall has been straight all
along, the posters hung with absolute care.

I want a prescription for the intensity of my
emotions but I don't want to become a zombie.

I don't want you to write me an anthem for my
dress size (0,) or my mistakes.

Sometimes I walk the path of self-vindication.
I've wished I was a better person even at the
age of three.

Same shit. Different day.

I've never been stricken down by anything
as deep as heroin. Never had a needle in my
veins that wasn't warranted.

But, I've been addicted to pain, sewing needles
pushed deep into the eager flesh of palms.
Razor blades gliding deep into milky flesh like
cutting through soft Swiss.

Alcohol replacing blood.

Drugs replacing God.

Agnosticism burned inside my heart at a time when
I still prayed. Hoping I was wrong, that someone
was listening, knew the pain I was breaking
under, to hold me close without saying a word.

I was left waiting, enslaving myself into dry eyes
and weak impulses.

I don't crave silence anymore, the way I crave
your lips, your lore, the idealistic sanctimonious
bullshit.

A thousand slammed closet doors have held the
secret wills of men that have come before. I am
just a hopeful, sentimental fool. My eyelids pinched
tightly together, sifting through the thirty five years
of my life, still wondering.

I've let men get away with violence, always said I'd
never let them. I had to get away, body intact,
whatever the cost to my psyche.

What kind of woman am I?

Never a dull moment, that's for sure.

I dine on a plate of stars, close enough for you to
cut my heart into devour-able pieces.

Don't play me like a doomsday fiddle.

Don't take away my token charm.

Hold me close. I know the price.

Lie to me to help me sleep at night, slip sweetly
into my own veins, drug-induced apathetic
principality, and now-

Mind has taken over this body numb.

Lips cracked.

Flesh coarse.

Creative instincts suppressed.

Lost.

Begging to remember what I was before this.