Sunday 2/25/2007 12:29:00 AM

By then everything is damp. And it all feels cold. Braids of vicodin throughout the mattes in her hair. She looks at us with exaggerated pupils. She laughs. A malignant ballad through the tremble in her lips.

Picking stabs from the vein like ready fruit. Turning solids into juice. With bashful hammers that want to wait. For a better time to kill. With open bottles unafraid to take the stage and sing along with the stale karaoke life farts out.

Dying melodies stabbing through the guts of a sentimental song. In the voices of characters we used to claim were ours. In the thick black outlines cartoons draw around their victims.

villains. everyone.

We watched the second hand have its stroke.

An old man. Someone's grandfather. Tearing off their diaper and shitting everywhere.

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