Once I played a game with myself—
Russian Roulette with a werewolf
And a silver bullet, oh yeah.
A rebel and I’m so bourgeois.
I was hoping the freak would die
And stop the dark—kill the hi-fi
Of my life; so damned scary, though.
In university I sold
Myself—lonely—for the fool’s gold
Of your anonymous embrace.
I was what I tried to replace.
Arrested thrice for shattering
Porcelain faces; battering
The dolls was all so tall when I
Was really so small, a small fry.
Little white lines—I stut-stuttered
Across the floor—bread and buttered,
Endowed with spoiled funds from dad.
Dangerous me, madder than bad.
And constantly a bad old thing,
I opened my wrist and I felt
That the drink was my safety belt.
Seven deaths and several tests
Have blanketed my manly breasts.
Me—well-rested, feral pacing.
You may be astounded—confound
It—I am perversity crowned;
A wanton whore, a fatherless son—
Absolutely no regrets. None.