too bad it's the middle of juneand my Christmas lights are still up.for once I'm sober, but you're still on my mindyou're no longer a drunk thought.I thought you would go away when the vodka did, or the jack daniels, or even the Jose Cuervo; but all the alcohol is gone and the thought of you is as stong as the first sip of greygoose.
On my arms,In the summertime.Its hot outside,But I don't mind.It covers everything I hide.I say its for style,To seem like I don't care,But that's all a lie,I notice everything that's there.Why do I wear sweatersIn the summertime?To cover my arms,That are covered with scars.And While you're too focused on my pretty sweaters,I'm silently hopingEverything will get better.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.