Streets and stars and your feathered wings that are almost destroyed yet of which are more beautiful for it as you struggle to swim through a sea of glitter and used tampons. Stairwells and passing feelings and distant planets that call your name as you scratch your skin in the hope of feeling something other than this endless sense of detachment and failure that never seems to shift. Behind my eyes, there’s some guy being tortured in Africa and a girl being glassed in a club in Brazil. There’s blood and flaps of skin hanging from her face and then comes flashing lights and camera phones shoved in the gaping holes in her cheeks as she cries and cries and begs to be saved but no one cares because this is life and life is meaningless like that. If you wish, you can talk about love and how it redeems and saves and makes the world a better place, but what’s the point of lying? We are born to end and end we do, each and every day in every possible way without ever knowing anyone but ourselves. So feed me junk food and give me handjobs while I write shit poetry in the hope that it gets me laid. Play some Mogwai and tell me God’s watching our every move while wiping the oil from your face and sucking on air as if it were going out of fashion. Open your mouth and scrub away the tears and stab that knife into your belly as I move through the mirror in search of something to make me feel alive because I don’t wanna feel like death until it’s time to say goodbye. Stick in your fingers and touch galaxies and ghosts and the shadows of your former self that skip around empty parking lots with the joyful abandon only a lonesome kid could know. Move with me through doors forever changing and catch a glimpse of something those around you could only ever dream of because they don’t know. They don’t know a thing.