Marco DiLeonardo Art

Hit it. Drink it.
Swallow it whole.
Crank it way up and crash.
On my knees. On my knees.
Down on my back.
Turn the bottle over.
Empty it on it's jagged head.

Murdered elbows and knees.
Crawling on mossy salted rocks.
Blurring eye contact the entire way up.
Entered to kick the jukebox once again.
Where ever we are, we're never going home.
More, more, it's always more.
On my worst behavior.

Never doing this again.
I said that last time.
On my knees. On my knees.
Regret afternoon after afternoon.
You're fine. You're alright.
I don't think so.

This was no act of vengeance.
Just something that happened effortlessly.
I remember it being different than before.
It was the right place at the proper time.
We were bad, which was actually good.
I majored in being completely vague.
Thinking about how liberating this felt for me.
The was no consideration that this was fucked up at all.
You know how peoples imaginations ran wild back then.
For this I tell you to stay silent, even now.
Keep it a memory under your clothes.
Tell no one.
You acted like you wanted more.
All those what ifs while you headed back.
I defused the desperation by changing the subject.
making fun of those fuckers in the airport.
Making it easier to say goodbye.