cherry cola (the sunlight dies)

7:46pm
(poe)

wish upon the phoenix witch (i want to be immortal)
mailbox to the afterlife- i have so many things left to say to myself. im missing my letters, dedicated to the day of the dead, dias de los muertos that i wasn’t there for. he knew i believed, i wonder if he waited for me.
kick open a can of paint and get the color gray all over your ripped up shoes. you haven’t worn socks in years and i doubt you’ll find them out here. your taste in music is the only taste you get to have: and even that only you can indulge yourself in. better like beans.
they all prepared for the after party (as if we weren’t living from bottle to bottle) and the after party’s even less saturated than the rave. you liked cold drinks, though. red cups and bad pills never did tickle your fancy. i never got the chance for either. some could call me lucky: i sure do, now. too much time on the rage to focus on the rave. but you tasted finality on your tongue everytime you touched the music. (i only tasted relief.)
amnesia is a slippery slope. whatever you want to remember might be worth forgetting. the blurry faces might seem ghostly, but full faces can throw their punches again. if you can see them, they can see you. trust me, i don’t want them to see me. (i miss what i can’t remember, and regret what i did) so may as well replace them with colors. neon colors are beautiful. they feel like the only home i ever had (unstable families were my thing). somehow you sour them- they taste like rotten cherry candy. you always tasted like rot (sweet, but left out too long).
i dont need your letters. im tired of my head being shoved through mail tubes. im tired of scratching nails against metal and wondering why i feel so small (compared to you, i was always small). keep your circles circling. keep your memories off and on. keep facing your faults only in the ways that keep others in and yourself out. im sick and tired of your pills. my eyes haven’t been mine since you.
maybe ill face my own pills.
maybe ill face my own brain.
maybe i’ll face me
(instead of you)
(god, im sick and tired of you)