Et Maintenant Nous Sommes Tout Seuls (And Now We're All Alone)

Et Maintenant Nous Sommes Tout Seuls (And Now We're All Alone)

He prays to the blade that kisses his skin;
a hedonistic nightly ritual, his African voodoo.
He chokes on his own self-loathing,
devouring a pack of smokes in hopes that the
cancer will make him better.
A whore, a slut, he gets a broken nose.
A skank, a fag, a broken rib to match.
He dons the red dress and powders his bruises,
stumbles precariously on the edge in a drunken manner,
brain too high to tell him to stop.
"Kill me," he says, whispers it to the skin of another nameless,
faceless, invisible friend. "Kill me dead." And he laughs
like it's a sugar sweet joke. A candy cane gag.
Laughs until ocean water bubbles past his lips,
until pleasant things like seaweed rots his teeth.
He laughs away his tears and cries away the pain,
tries to ignore the bleeding in his ears,
and the alcohol, the drugs, the hate and the sex
that fills his veins like some kind of
anti-Prozac that tries to make him think he's better.
He chokes on his own self-loathing,
scorches his tongue on a heated, sugary spoon,
tears his flesh with the prick of self indulgence.