1, 2 and Three (3)

String me a line - - - about how I'm fine - yes - yes - this and that - and I get it. I take it on, like a plane flight and a paraffin ride or a blue light and a forgettable night and a train track and a heroin pattern and a death row explanation and the hammer and the judge. I can take it, forget it, make it, believe it, regret it... but I can't forget it --- and I rewind that, and make it magic, and make it black... and can I bloody my Mary and turn my cross into salt, and can I get better or am I a crack in the weather for races that bury the faces at paces of treatments and would I get better if I cleaned better, got new Dettol perfume bottles, made friends with God again - would I be better then? Heaven is better for white avenues for people who have been used (not people who USE). Am I using again? Am I on hallucingens? Am I losing my skin - losing the battle of cancer like him? Upstairs - can I take you - and stab you and slap you (in that order) until you fall to the floor under some doggy's paw and go back to the place I was living before. I had music and failure and power and wholemeal bread to live up to. I am not you. I am undone. I am the wrong answer to the wrong sum. I am two out of four when three equals one plus one. I am done. I am gone like the wind... I am you - him, Fatherless, pretty, with eyes like he had... and I am sort of glad that he chose the life that he had so he had what he had even though I had nothing. I guess I ain't that sum. What was it again? I ain't one plus one. I am zero, none, nothing... Guess you can tick the box and write that one in. You can stereotype your way out and back in again. Can you, can you lick up the salt after pouring it in to the wound that you caused? I could die and die and die again. I have already. What difference is the light when it cuts like a knife in the night? What makes something wrong when it cuts so fucking right (like a spare scar and a kiss goodbye)? So I am one, two and three; living death... just to die.