(im)proper ill.

her love is his sickness

his sickness is pills

and pill bottles are emptied

and then refilled.

oh how destructive

and oh how cliché

to tangle our words

and our bed sheets this way.

deteriorating slowly

only hurts a little bit

and this girl you envision,

well, she’s not what you’ll get

clouded vision, but her eyes shine brightly

porcelain bone structure screams,

“just touch me!”

dressed like a doll with bitten rouged lips

kisses on her collar bone, trailing to her hips.

just so beautiful you want to suck her dry.

stacks of petite bones that are lovely as lies.

oh how destructive

and oh how cliché

to tangle our words

and our bed sheets this way.

and i’ve got this addiction

that i’ve got to kick

cause it’s breaking you

and that’s making me sick

wouldn’t it be luscious?

wouldn’t it be divine?

if every time i turned around

there wasn’t something to remind

me of the way my heart makes that terrible sound?

not quite a stutter and not quite a pound.

oh how destructive

and oh how cliché

to tangle our words

and our bed sheets this way.

oh how destructive

and oh how cliché

to tangle our words

and our bed sheets this way.

his love is her sickness

her sickness is pills

the bottles are empty,

but who will refill?