I watch you watch poisoned pigeons and I know you want to be dead. I know you’d rather be a ghost than a man. You said so: “I wanna be a ghost.” You said this often, except you pronounced it “ghewst.” I know how many tequila shots and pills it takes you to come down with a coma. And I know that whenever you wake up in a hospital, happy to see Tina’s lovely, worried face, you’re pissed off that all your shaky friends who live outside your head won’t let you stop. That they are so greedy for your work and your self they don’t care how much it hurts you to stay.
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