Ryan Adams & My Obsession with Death

The title gives away the ending.

 

the way he plucks his guitar
is very similar to how i stick my fingers down
my throat.
i can hear his voice crack and lick the notes out of nowhere.
very familiar to the way my stomach lurches and errupts all over the bowl of ever changing water.

his denim is my denim and we're wearing our blood outside our clothes and just waiting to get sucked.
perfect, his southern compass of drawl and sprawl.
my middle class, middle child mania mantra. we're circumsising our souls with our own knives.

whispering to the ground after feeding her our vomit and our whiskey.
pulling up grass and dead lovers by their broken promises.

with mouths full of dust and death we vow to ourselves that it's almost over. just have to make it home from the bar. just have to get that bell to stop ringing, just have to get over that cracked slope.

we were right from the start.
we were wrong to even begin.
we're foolish.
we're so foolish.