the ugly miracle of almost

there’s no absolution in this—cigarette smoke in the lungs of a room. we dress our sins up in cheap perfume and dare the night to notice. the pavement’s slick with last week’s promises, and i’m slipping on every one. 

violence is rhythm, but rhythm is comfort, and comfort is the first thing we ruined. sharp fizz then nothing but glass. you wear it better than i do. chaos looks custom-tailored on you, and i keep trying it on, sleeves dragging, collar choking, wondering how much of me i’ll have to cut away before it fits.