you cry a bucket of grey skies filling my heart like kansas state torrential rains. you downpour tears while we pour down bottles of ninety-nine percent proof, howling at the moon and its fucked how fast eleven at night can turn into regrets at noon. you're a fucking fake, we're all fucking fake because we avoid the mutter of real names, realness reminds us of bullshit we hate. her strawberry hair wraps around the nothings in the wind like fresh bed sheets on the clothes line in this growing storm. beat back by a breeze brought on by darkening clouds the woven cotton dances away its memories of sex and love and all that we hold dear and the cold makes us shudder and we run to close these shutters. but its too late and the staircases and hallways and closets of your rib cage hollow out their insides and you spill your guts like furniture and picture frames on boulevards after hurricanes. you'll pick through your wreckage, stacking timbers next to tear drops, hoping no one saw too much beneath that crumbled facade. and i'd help out but i'm all out of smokes and got tired of hiding behind those bricks and mortar ages ago.
