Suddenly I'm so tired of being weak.
Of the desire to be weak.
All the bullshit about crimson tears
and nothing tastes as good as
thin...
thin...
thin air...
Born perhaps of that competition for perfection,
but maintained,
sustained,
drained
of all purpose and pleasure by the teenage-angst circus.
Ring around the roses, rosered rings around your wrists
leave scars that you'll regret.
Falling,
falling,
it all comes down.
And again.
And again.
There's no control here,
the Fat Controller's at the hospital,
working with trains is no good
when you step right off the platform.
