On the phone you tell me squeezing through the narrow black veins on the map of your life, the journey is constant agony. "VACANCY" in flashing neon signals your loss of innocence. protected by darkness, you give yourself over to degradation while choking back the desire to turn lights on, looking for mirrors, seeking reflections... the reason why no longer matters. waking up together is terrifying, leaving you exposed to yourself. the moon alone does not spill your blood. you've begun to accept despair as your right and must invent yourself in order to exist. you trade yourself in religiously, every two years for the same model, and are always saying good-bye without meaning it. it is not by accident that you leave open doors behind you. you call yourself by different names, yet each scar you bear is a name-tag. suicide is no escape... Oh, women you think were born to suffer--- if you weren't a masochist, you'd be a man. Barbara Gregory (Pearlman) |