A Phoenix's Inferno [Hungover Christian]

This smoke is all the same to me

I've been dying for a chance to see the other side;

--a psychedelic daydream for the hungover Christian--

blacking out, waking up in strangers' bathrooms.

And I've never smoked weed, but I'd imagine

it's like flying a kite into a screen of stars and static,

like the news station that reports on left sided cigarettes and collapsing lungs.

My hands are cut up and dirty, so the glow is all the same.

But trust me, I'm only getting started.

There are too many lights to stand under, too many parties to attend

where we all wear masks and pretend to know one another,

casually sipping a drink we pray is spiked with some sort of liquid happiness.

I like rooms like this.

They're crowded --  I can get lost.

The bass of the music is so loud that no one hears me screaming

that I'm not okay -- that I can't find my ride home.

Of course, these are all rewound theories.

Can't you see the ink from the tape between my fingers

as I gently caress the lips of the girl in the back

with thick hips and loose morals?

I don't think I know who I am anymore.

I just keep rocking my hips to the sounds Zaslavski creates

somewhere between mountain valleys and car seats.

I can't stop myself -- I want to let loose. Break Free.

Oh, but it is really freedom?

I can't tell the difference from the back of the club;

just sweating to pass the time, trying to find out

when I lost my phone -- I think it was three drinks ago.

But these lips remained steam pressed and sealed.

I won't say aloud how I want to wear the tight dresses

and fun heels -- but man, I'll think about it.

Going and going until the wheels stop turning. Slow, seductive exhales.

If I can find my money, I'll take a cab home.

Or rent my womb out for someone a little more lonely.

This is where these roads go -- split apart and splintered

into cells that divide in an endless ambulance ride.

I just want my skin to feel so hot that I become fire itself.

I want to be so red that people mistake me for blood.

They'll mop me up when I melt away, and by the time the sun rises

they can forget all about me and my spinning headaches.

Because there seriously is no feeling like a raving party!

We can all make mistakes and be mistakes and waste each hour

kissing someone that will never remember who we are.

This is just how karma plays games and how we learn to shield ourselves from regret.

I'll just remember to count the amount of Twinkies I eat on one hand.

I'll make my hands shake as I dance with you just one more time,

trying so hard to forget--what's his name?--but drowning in my own vomit

before I can even make it to the bathroom; so the cycle repeats.

And if you could, before you go...

could you pass me a napkin and a pen so I can write down

the name of the DJ? He's got a cute face and I might just take him home

to forget how much I hate myself and how I wish my name was something different.

Author's Note

Nothing related to real life, really. Just kind of a blurb of nonsense.