Frankie’s Fire

I’m sorry I reek of blood at times it’s just the stains on my sleeves won’t dry and I’m sick of sewing shut what I’m gonna end up tearing open anyway. That’s the thing with sadness, it comes with longing which empties you out. I’ve tried gulping it down like alcohol, smoke it away like cigars and regret, filling the void in between with strangers and grease and dopamine and bending over the toilet bowl with calculators in my head. I’ve hung around every aisle, clinging onto people’s sharp edges and my scream echoes down the driveway when I went past one hundred and sixty five after a couple of sleeping pills. No, I’m not suicidal. I don’t think I’m insane, I can’t be. I’m just in dire need of myself and I’ve lost that, cause the red light blinds me so I just speed through. I wonder what it feels like to have your warmth lingers around, but I’d probably just kill the both of us. Death is a constant, you know? Still, your will to stay is the only variable I need right now so I’ll just swerve by the roadside and keep my eyes closed.