My life has slowly morphed into , Kurt Cobain's trigger finger , asking people to be open minded , quite literally-- and I thrive on the sound of dripping blood from their temples ; blue print of their sins . Usually , I come home to a father unstable on his feet , a mother with a terrible tolerance to sanity and a sister , drawing guns and intestines on pages . Today , I don't look at their disintegrating faces when I stumble back home , to pick up dad's keys . He wouldn't mind , he sometimes tries to make me a fragment of his imagination .
( Dad , how I wish I were just a part of your subconscious . Reality is terrifying . I would ask you to save me , but can you save yourself? )
I hit my head on the steering wheel , I've been trying to learn how to seduce men and turn the switch off . I've also been trying to write about a boy since this poem has started . How the newspaper will decorate my house tomorrow --Unidentified young woman found dead on the streets -- my mom's eyes will evolve into gruesome skull holes . To her , I was a good little daughter , continuing the loop of life . My sister will draw dead bodies , with a face that looks similar to hers , and my dad will finally be able to stuff me in the drawers of his imagination and rip my skin , strip by strip .
I sometimes find bloodstains on clothes I wear , my brain has slowly liquefied itself and seeps through pores when I try to write , Kiss me , and you'll taste sins and regrets with a hint of copper , this isn't my first time kissing someone , I have kissed the muzzle of a 9mm time and again , and woke up eveytime to mourn what I could've been .