The North Star: Violent & Graphic.

Every Monday I spend an hour in Switzerland:
Recount blood on bathroom walls and your calloused skeleton hands on me
Dissociate and turn everything into a dream,
Chemically manufacture insomnia ingrain it into the gray matter of my brain
There is no more black and white its all so dusty and unclean like a burnt out light bulb
Ashes everywhere like concrete before its concrete
Whats black and white and red all over?
Your chemicals pouring forth alchemy and I was your dalmatian
I had one hundred and one lives, and you ruined them every night
You struck me in the face with a newspaper three times, three strikes I was out
Until the next inning, but you were always on the mound
And I was always on the cross and you said,
Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face, the kind you'd find on someone I could rape
If they don't put me away, well it would be a miracle
And now I don't believe in anything anymore except impossible lies
But everything was possible before all my time was completely wasted
Drunker than you laughing in my face, like some bashed in, lumpy jack-o-lantern
Grinning and empty and dangerously on fire
I was dangerously still, dangerously quiet
Like a corpse in wait like rocks at the bottom of some dirty river
I was quiet as a candle, there were
Fireworks on your face and hurricanes caught in my throat
I choked back fear and love and pride
I choked on my existence and swallowed it whole
Squeezed my eyes shut to stripper music and red lights red lights red lights stop
Stop the movie stop the show stop traffic don't let it hit me
I'm not here, this isn't happening.
I'm not here, this isn't happening.
Your piano hands grabbed at what was left of me,
A bag of bones fit to be buried and forgotten, and unmarked grave and unmarked face
I would scrub it like meth heads scrubs the space, in between bathroom tiles
The longest shower would do nothing
The longest nightmare was lived in waking
Left my innocence
Like some voodoo doll, all scarred and stuck with needles
All stuck in the middle
Replaced my innocence with smeared bitter anger,
Lack of cognizance lack of sense lack of respect
For anyone who is lacking in plans to ruin me
If I could go back armed with the knowledge of knowing what I know
I'd end it all when I was sixteen years old,
You'd French kiss my fingertips and I'd wave them goodbye.