As for me, I’m still thumbing on the side of that knotted highway. Hoping that somebody has the decency to pick me up.

           You’re all dark to me. Your heart is black. You’re fingers are icy and I promise I feel no need to reach for them. Still, my hands are in my pockets, my fists are clenched and I can’t figure out if it’s because I’m so damn mad at you or because I do desire the resolution that one touch of affection would imply. I can’t bring myself to forgive these things. I want to, but instead I stand and roll my eyes, impatiently waiting for you to forget your charade and get out of the box. Get out of the fucking box.

            Vampire. Or zombie. Be either one but don’t be nothing. The index finger in my pocket twitches toward you. Have your stupid flowers. Have them and not me. You’d rather petals that would wither and… die. You’d rather the kiss of a thorn as they thrust you downward and you’re lost to grasping tendrils of roots and the hard tomb of soil. You’d rather they lay next to you and not me? You’d rather the years churn and break and blend and all that they match you with is traces of dyed petals to match your tie. Blue. Skies I’ll see but never you.

            The looks I got when I came in. Wearing my hair all down, and a striped jumper with my converse obnoxiously laced in bright stars. Stretchy pants at my shins and further underneath that pale skin pulled too tightly over bones at angles so sharp that they whisper. They whispered about a drug addiction, about my lithe frame emerging from a public bathroom, eyes and nose red, sniffling and shuddering. They made their inner eyes see white powder under my nose, a hand slipping into my pocket to conceal a small bag accessorized with a fifty-dollar bill. It was all a lie of the imagination. Death was not enough, a scandal had to be tacked on with a price tag marked “sanity”.

            I have only you to blame. Since I cannot blame myself and the friends we had not a week earlier hang together in the back of the room avoiding my gaze, I am after all an alleged drug addict and murderer. They didn’t want me here. I’m still trying to piece together the reasons why I convinced myself to come. I’ve become quite certain that there was no thought process at all. That I roved over grassy hills, avoiding sidewalks and people and came to you here, pathetic in your box, all by means of an invisible track and magnets tugging me along the way.

            Lies. All lies delivered for an all too willing ear by the manifestation of all my walls of fake hate and anger. My hand darts out and the impulse to strangle your dead corpse turns into a desperate hand fastened on yours, I’d only imagined how unlike yours they would feel. You’re not here. You’re not in this body. Before I know it I’m horrifying your parents and relatives and climbing into the box to lay beside what was once the embodiment of you. I’m received by the piercing thorns of blue roses that I willfully ignore. I pull the lid down and pretend that we’re alone in your room hiding from a shared schizophrenic vision. Nobody had ever figured out that you were just as sick as I was. And now they never will. I’ll never tell them what kind of monster really pushed you out the third floor window to your doom. They don’t need to know the kinds of things we know. It’ll be back for me soon enough anyway. 

I'm not perfect.

I'm not sane.

I'm not the prettiest. Hottest. Most beautiful.

I'm not the funnest.

And I have issues.

Sometimes all I want is for you to help me.

And I hate that I have to spell it out for you most of the time. 

I wish that you loved me for all my flaws. 

But it's become apparent that you hate me for them. 

I wish you could love all my little quirks. 

You don't understand them. 

I wish you knew me and knew what to do. 

You don't.

I'm sorry that I expect more from you.

Because I obviously overestimate you constantly.

I'm sorry that I gave you the opportunity to see what else is out there.

Cuz now I realize just how crummy it must be being with me.

How many more fun girls there are out there.

How many that don't have issues.

How many that might be prettier. Hotter. More Beautiful.

How many that don't constantly need your help and support.

I need your support. I don't get it. Ever.

So.

Once again I come to the same conclusion.

You don't want to help me.

You don't like helping me.

You deserve somebody who doesn't need so much support.

I've come to this conclusion with almost every other boyfriend I've ever had.

Because it seemed like with all of them I just asked too much.

I asked for them to listen.

I asked for them to care.

I asked for them to support me.

I tried to support them as much as I could.

But the favor never got returned.

So.

Once again.

I'm at the same spot.

Only I got farther with you.

I got to the point where I decided to let you see what else is out there.

And even though you might have gone a little crazy with that, with your ten girls.

Obviously you're having a better time when I'm not around.

Obviously you found what I was afraid you'd find.

Something better.

Something happier.

Something with no assembly required.

Ugh. Boys are so lazy.

And I know you don't understand me.

And I know that when you read this you'll only find things to be angry about.

I don't know why you do that.

I've only been crying out for help that never comes.

But.

I guess with all this concluded.

And all my feelings and secrets wrapped up within me.

Cutting me up as usual.

I'll depart.

I think you'll be better off without me.

And I think I should just leave so that you can be happy.

And I can forever be the broken girl from the discount bin.

          Driving downtown. There’s Christmas everywhere. You can see it, smell it, taste it, feel it on your cheeks and fingers, itchy for unwrapping the first gift. It’s not the movie Christmas where in the end everybody learns to love and give and the Grinch’s ice cold heart grows three sizes bigger, but there it is: Christmas spirit. The stress, suicide, and inescapable fear of your obligation to be with your family and get judged. But here we are. It’s all around, and as sadistic as this disappointment of a year has made me, my heart swells when I look outside and relive the thrill of the first big snowstorm.

            I can’t even afford a tree this year. Not even close. I can’t afford any of the decorations, or food or even a box of hot cocoa. I don’t know if I was expecting my family to come visit me any more than they never do now that it’s so close to the holidays, but I’m almost glad they didn’t. If they saw how empty of Christmas cheer my apartment is, it would only confirm their suspicions that my first few months living out on my own have been a painfully complete and utter failure.

            It’s not that I haven’t tried, or that I haven’t made every effort to stay positive and ride out the storm, it’s just that shit piles on top of shit and every small ounce of happiness I try to buy myself only takes me three steps back. So now with the plastic lights and tinsel and candy-reindeer-elf encrusted holiday glaring back at me I do have a new acoustic bass for me.

I have nothing really. Except an obnoxious, goofy cat who looks plain and eats at least three times his body weight every day and who, for some reason I decided to call Rooster just because in and odd way it suits him. I at least have two thirds of my rent even though it was due five days ago. I have two friends in the whole world, one who I avoid because I can’t deal with the pressure of keeping her, and the other who I avoid emotionally because giving too much of myself is giving too much. I have a couch and a TV with no cable, I have a computer with no internet, a table with no food. I live alone with a cat, a rat and a newt. I have a borrowed snowboard which I almost get killed on every time I use it. There’s always the added bonus of pressure and fear that I don’t measure up and that I’ll never make anything of myself except maybe a mother to an odd boy named Hiro.

            And this is the first Christmas on my own. 

__________________________________________________

Books and poems and ancient scriptures alike employ themes and phrases meant to paint a general picture using similes and metaphors, which generally begin with: “Love is like…” Typically the word tacked on the end is a garden, a river, a sunrise, things that grow, and flourish and progress, or things which are wild but eventually melt into one warm, wholesome center overflowing with importance of meaning and Zen.

            The man who thinks positively and has been generally treated with dignity by love, will arrive time and time again at the same feeble epiphany; love appears at times to be insincere and vindictive, but in the end, love conquers all, love is beautiful.

            Love itself is not to blame … fuuuhhk  

__________________________________________

A bureau with broken legs

Clawed feet weak and feeble,

An old antique repainted

Rotting on the inside

Distress hidden beneath stains and a fixed handle.

The contents have never changed

Old letters and crumpled up drawings.

Clothes, sheets; all things to dress up what is bare.

All things to reach out.

All things to be snatched away.

All things hidden behind doors that creak on their hinges.

All things loved that will eventually be tossed away... 

________________________________

            I awoke distant and alone in an unfamiliar room, tangled in sheets and too many blankets. All was gray and shaded, something strange about my vision, things were all sharp around the edges and blurred in the middle. My hands were numb and shaky, legs asleep maybe. A window at my bedside, wide open to let the rain and cool autumn air flow freely in. Cars murmured lazily past on the wet street several stories below, humming all the more when they broke the still of a lonely puddle. 

_________________________________________

Dark tendrils of cloud skidded across the sky, swelling as the sun cut through with razor blades of light. Their murky arms slithered and consumed, gradually subduing any bright beam or trace of blue that loitered for too long. The air constricted and pulsed, promising chaos with each deep breath, pushing firmly on the back of each child and mother who lingered in the back yard with a fly swatter and fifty-dollar inflatable pool, still searching for comfort in the humidity. They dare not waste one moment of warm summer air, thinking on how long they’d waited like hermits in their houses for winter storms and biting cold to pass. But as soon as the first heavy drop hit a bare shoulder and eyes turned upwards, innocently searching for the evident source, towels were thrown over shoulders while bare feet padded indoors to remove box fans from windows that were soon to be shut tight. 

__________________________________________

Five in the morning rolled around when Lenny began to hear the waves again. Throwing the ratty comforter to the floor she sighed and avoided eye contact with the glaring red letters of her alarm clock. It was painfully obvious that her battle for sleep was quickly being lost to the creeping gold fog of city sunlight. The waves rolled back, almost becoming silent as they were pulled towards the horizon. One last try, one last chance to snag that final hour of sleep before it’s lost for good. Silence. Then a slow organic static and the waves were rolling back again louder than ever. She shot up, once again mumbling incoherently to herself as she shoved a skinny pale pinky into her ear trying to scrape away the nagging tide. It was pointless, she might as well cut her losses and bury her face in her drool stained pillow until the alarm sounded. The best she could do was hope that she was tired enough that her brain would numb out the sounds of invisible ocean and she’d fall into some kind of peaceful coma.

            Seconds later it seemed the alarm was screaming. At least it wasn’t those obnoxious waves. Groggy and buzzing with overtired energy she shot up and slammed a hand down on the off button. Feet over the edge of the bed, city buzzing outside below. Even the honking horns and sirens held a sense of peace and silence when she’d been fighting the waves all night. She flicked on the radio

_______________________________________


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Thanks to all the fuckin sweet ass bastards who've added us and become a part of our mind blowing, soul eating, ass conquering fucking sweet ass army! (We've been online for like 3 days and we already have almost a fuckin hundred friends. Sweet.)

We are keen on complete world domination by July though, so keep up the good work and tell all your friends! Send some of our hot ass fliers around, stuff them down peoples throats, staple them to little kids as they pass by, it's all good in the hood, just tell the cops hitler made you do it!

Leave us any comments or messages about upcoming shows or just any random shit, we love to hear you talk out of your asses. Also, as we are a new band we have plenty of room for shows so if you have a spot to fill, are setting up a show, or if you're a band and would like to help get us on the bill, that would be fuckin fantastic, and we do return the favor!

Thanks munchheads! We love you like a fat kid love cake!

-The Scantys

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Face down,

There are no tears where these tracks will lead you

To believe that something ever was

Inside this empty chest;

A phantom that we pretend to ignore

But never lay to rest.

And all the while we’re only dreaming

When things make sense

No complications

No better side

No grass that’s greener and no sign.

A body cleaved in two

So there’s one half for me

And there’s one left for you.

My empty box of letters

Cuts and bruises and brain matter.

Nothing left to say and nothing more to give

No right way to go

Or road that leads to anywhere close

To a happy end. 

___________________________________

Empty little spaces and broken glass in my skin, bleeding until each shard becomes lost in flesh. There’s always the risk of not picking them out before the blood clots and the wound is falsely healed with splinters captive beneath a mound of cells that overcompensated. 

______________________________

I’d like to cut a little hole inside this flesh,

A bottle, a boy, a death-note; black.

Crusty little fingers picking away the tide.

Defeatist as I am conscious

And curious as I am both.

Each reference smiles and jeers,

Wise, disinclined to surrender.

Archive upon archive, cryptically divulge,

Disillusioned organs shrivel with comprehension.    

Speculation, asphyxiating as disease;
Inquiry and poison in one vial.     

And when it all came down to it I was at the same place as when this all started, splayed out on my bed letting cigarette ash fall on my face, into my eyes even. I didn't care anymore, I didn't move except to pluck the empty corpse of the last cigarette out from between my lips and replace it with a crisp new one. Each time I flicked the lighter I thought of that fateful night. I tried his trick, lighting it with no flame, I let it rest betwee my lips and willed it to light, maybe by some magic as he had, or maybe he'd be passing through, watching me, maybe he'd

If you don't get what you want most of the time
Then you're gutting some poor bastard
To find your place in line.
Ultimately it's a match
And you're down to take the test
Cut off someone's balls just to prove that you're the best. 
The bounty that you reap
From this mess that you've made
Is the bloody rotten sight of their corpses in a grave.  
You're the left hand man of destruction at it's worst
Wiping stains out of the basement
Right where you park your hearse.