the truth only hurts without lubrication
the alcohol absolves it all.
a drunken baptism; i am whole again. plugging holes again. smoking bowls again. stomping on hot coals again.
it's 2am. do you know where your heart is?
do you know what color it is and the size shoe that crushed it on the way to meet someone else?
do you know i've got a short circuit? the little something that connects my jittery, sputtering brain to my ruddy little comical heart has a time delay and its always going to be too late to say just what the fuck i mean.
i mean, fuck.
i'm a mean fuck.
and i fucking mean the shit i say/type/cry/scream when i say that all i got is all yours, to have and to hold and to crush and to mold.
your face is better than a fucking abba song.
and you don't have to be jesus or miss cleo to know just how much i love abba and how much i desperately love you.
