I'm clutching at my stomach only two drinks in outside the flower shop.
Glitter hangs in vomit waves, both those pink cosmos in the craters of my boots,
Laced in double knots.
And I'm so happy but what's the use?
I'd say it here even if it wasn't true.
All the stars are dead above the bars and our stories overflow in the vestigial light.
Everyone's pushing past the one who dares claim to be something they don't even like.
But I'm still happy aren't I? This is all I wanna do.
In the garment's fist I'm squeezing out each exhalation.
Baby-faced and chasing overstimulation.
I'll be a virgin to the scalpels in my dreams of surgery.
I'm so ugly here right now on either side they cross the street.
Give me an expert with a blueprint and at least a month or two.
I'll be back again, potential friends, and make some sense to you.
Thank you for the doctor's note, I'm looking forward to the knife.
Thank you for the letterhead that lets them know to save my life.
Thank you for the bouncers that only check the age, no other market.
But I hate you all looking away, you want me more if I'm a martyr.
I'll be a virgin to the scalpels in my dreams of surgery.
I'm so weird I think right now, on either side they cross the street.
Give me insurance, no exclusions, and at least a month or two.
I'll be back again, and after then, I'll make some sense to you.