I spit A-c-iD.

&p.u.ke. poison.

11 October 1990
He would die for her.
He would die with her.
To know her,
to be her,
To just be apart of her world.

It was silly really.
Such infatuation never turns out for the best.

Oh but the idol he so worshiped
was keeping a little 8 inch secret from him.
Such lies we spread to not spread our legs.

And he kisses,
and touches,
and dreams of fucking the space between her thighs
in the space between her sheets
in that place between ecstasy and high.
While she just smiles with her mouth and eyes,
never fully refusing,
but never fully agreeing.
Would it still be rape if he tried?

And his world was ready to shatter
after learning that black was white
and up was backwards
and peaches weren't just bigger cherries.
And there wasn't a cherry to be squeezed on this little peach.
Or a pit to pick and spit.

Born three weeks ahead of schedule.
Crybaby ever since.
Abandoned at age 3.
Picked up a pen at 10--
has never put it down.
Broke teeth, not promises, for 7 years.
Became a zombie at 15.
Declared schizophrenic at 16.
Ran away to join the circus at 17.
Dubbed a teenage drama queen inside a 23 year old.
Published a novel last year.
Doesn't know the difference between the truth and a lie.
Shoves metal in her skin.
Injects ink in large doses.
Vision: 100% --- hates it.
Hearing: 50% --- hates it.
I'll be dead at 36.

What's true and what's false?
You tell me.

My mother gave birth to an alien,
then she gave it my name.

"You look like shit, Nine."

"Everyday feels like a brand new
fetus bursting from the womb
just screaming
'I'm ready to live! I'm ready to be here!'
only to wake up the next day with
crippling cancer.

Can you just shut me up?
Maybe it'll help me concentrate for a minute or three.

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