It's always a good idea
to smoke your essence before you do these things.
But I was never able to grasp my words,
so my essence will stay with you,
you can keep it.
It's too late for me now,
The needles in my throat,
I can see them trembling like suicide's hand.
No more wasted letters,
here,
on these streets,
the needles will prove their point.
I swore to never let her take me back.
But here we are,
and once again,
I've embraced the Black Devil's solace.
My wall is ash.
I built it in a decade and a half of never,
and still you burned without hesitation.
Grinding the sands of time between your index and thumb
flicking leftovers at what you call love.
A grain of remorse moves through me,
crashing into overgrown child issues.
But don't believe for one second that this is for you,
that's an impossibility.
I've written this for the Death Of Brian Amaya,
a manifesto scrawled in dried agony,
It can't be spoken,
we must find it in silence,
sickening silence,
bruised and cowardly silence,
spaced between your lips,
and silence.
I'll be gone,
precise and clean,
No blood, nor tears, no cringing regret right before the climax,
just gone.
I'll be gone because I say I will be.
Brian Amaya can die,
my name can be that dust,
I couldn't care any less.
I don't ask for anyone to care any more.
Life can smile without Brian Amaya,
Life can breathe without Brian Amaya,
Life can be yours without Brian Amaya.
When the needles are done choking me,
I will still be here,
hugging the Black Devil,
looking into her eyes,
hoping she can see herself cry in my reflection.
No sound,
just the Black Devil and my death.
This silence will fold like wings,
and will find itself lost,
on the grunge of God's beauty.
Thank you.
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