(after lorde’s “melodrama”)

 

i want to see the smoke again. the lights

flash and fizzle and i am lying on the ground

​

and letting the bass shake my skull because

this is what i came here for. to shake

​

to be shaken. i dig my too-long too-

shiny too-gemmed fucking nails

​

into the carpet and watch velvet

surround me. it is smoking

​

i am smoking and you are fucking

smoking but you’ve always been.

​

my arms hang and i want to tear

my fake fucking nails off of my fake

​

fucking body and i should be calmer

at this point but i can’t stop thinking

​

about red and smoke and all of the beautiful

lights that hang sometimes or about that fucking

​

birthmark and that each part of my body

is referential in some way and that everything

​

will always come back to you because

i climbed through hell with acrylic

​

gemmed fucking nails that you made

me buy and now i’m at a party without

​

enough vodka and too much pot and everything

here smells beautiful. in the same way you were trying

 

to become. like poetry and specks of dust.

or the way things fall and break and become

​

created or sometimes creation. because

everything’s smoking and bleeding

​

and lights won’t stop flashing. because

you know you’re the only reason i even came

​

and i take my lighter out again and hope

maybe this time the smoke will drip.