Janice Doesn't Come Around Here Any More

"Janice doesn't come around here any more."
A blanket of death-white moons collapse upon my brittle body,
Made sober by the past week's revelations.
I remember the distinct smells, underneath these sheets,
Lighted by the ghost of your breath.

Remember all the somber tunes we attempted to share?
I gasped for breath, you gasped out of laughter; where were our thoughts?
You can silence the words exchanged, but you can't revoke our shared breaths.
I can hear you weeping underneath these same sheets, two stagnant thoughts away.
We are but a single changed thought away from happiness.

Tasting the frothing lips that come asunder, quivering like a bloodied bee
Eyelashes made out of everything I love, thoughts as seductive as only primates must know.
Yet, you don't come around here no more.

Consider this a ballad,
A weeping wandering soul evoking reminiscent fancies like a gasping fish,
Emotional masturbation, at it's finest.

I am exactly the bashful carnivore that you assume I am,
I am everything you believe me to be.

So many stagnant nights spent staring at this...digital catacomb,
Why waste another blanketed moon?
Why don't we stop turning these hours into weeks, and just make the impossible happen?
Since it's all so possible.
I am but a single excused thought away from happiness.

Call me your worst mistake, call me a fluke:
I'd rather be the best than the worst; I'd rather be the worst than nothing at all.

Put me in that bed, tuck me in and suffocate me with the sweet smell of your anger,
Shock me with your unpredictable wrath, I am your volatile volt of classic chaos.
Turn and hide.
Run and quiver.
Turn and hide, run and quiver, turn and hide, run and make me your ghost.

I'd rather be on the tip of your blasphemous tongue than swallowed down whole.

Frosty fingertips gliding down the celestial mouth guilted into loving another.
Don't deny me this gift from God, don't spit it back to frolic within the realms of teenage fuckups.
Relinquish this bastardized mother that I suckle onto, give me back your gift.

All of these words come from the goddess, under these blankets made of moons.
She's a rude phantasm; she knows how empty she leaves these halls,
Where she walked, where she yelled, where she lay passionate.
She's too cruel: she knows exactly how hollow she's left this shell of a home.
Hell quivers at the thought of accepting her; Heaven turns it's head and accepts no call.
Where will we go now? What chapter lies riddled in this pungent mess of a man?
I am but one excuse away from fulfillment.
Janice.

Janice used to live here. Not in this home, but in these thoughts.
Janice doesn't understand the idea of home ownership.
We will miss you, but you are never gone.
You will miss me, but I am never gone.
Don't ever shun the solace that you can find within a moment's peace.
Just accept every twist and turn as an overpopulated modernity.
We are smarter than this; we are better than this.
We are but one phonecall away from sleeping well at night.


But you don't come around here no more.