( Please feel free to listen to this while reading: Weapon of Choice )
This is a night made for mayhem.
She's a lost girl on a lost highway of hope. The stars don't want to shine for her tonight; they are all chatting behind a miracle of overcast, hiding the gossip which makes them swollen and bright. A whole atmosphere knows the pain of one microscopic being that heralds the sun like a hammer. And it's in a buzz from the warfare between herself and tiny demons that hibernated in her skull.
The first swing is deliberately wild. Her hands choke at the wooden bat that is operated like a new limb. She has never done this before and it shows; a mouth that gasps and eyes that cinch tighter than the Virgin Mary's ****.
C r a s h --
Thousands of eyes now sparkle in the lamp light of the ghost town street she goes on a rampage in. Thousands of little pieces of glass that burst at the reckless impact of a girl gone mad. A car alarm begins to echo down the gutted out alleys, waking up all the three o'clock in the morning sleepers. She finds that the flashing of the headlights is bothersome to the muck of her eyes. Pills that make her dream-woven and dreamy are now just there to cushion the ricochet percussion, and are the culprit behind the sluggish slur of her body language when dragging the bat across broken glass and cool asphalt to go head to head with the automobile.
This is the statement she makes to the obnoxious thoughts circling like a murder of crows behind her eyes.
S m a s h --
A slow motion would show the exact point of no return; she spun her hips, rotated her shoulders, and went to bat against the luminescent eyes of the headlights. One after the other. Broken pieces of shrapnel propelled out to strike back at the sylph-like raider.
She was sick and stuck at the crossroads between being a believer and a non-believer. A wasteland of revelations that should have helped patch up the evidence of her broken parts only served up another batch of hidden aggression. Look at her; she's a deceitful scarlet letter stuffed in the fabrication of a fragile damsel. But there's a potent weapon that docked inside this sweet thing.
B a s h --
Window after window. A few strikes that came out viciously with the maniacal frenzy bubbling out from her pores. This is absolute mania that needs to be flushed from her system before she becomes septic. The only cure being how she damages the inanimate object in front of her, relishing the dismembered symphony of the dents and rabid cracks left in it.
She realizes once her face tips up to the watered down lights making a halo over the Windy City that her breathing is erratic. It's a risky pulse that vibrates her skin across her bones. She knows this feeling; it's bliss. It's the release like an orgasm that came after a tawdry ****-fest but was missing the filler of flesh or the wrinkling of sheets.
She relishes it. Savors the afterglow even as people are beginning to become curious, playing Peeping Tom out their windows to the rare sight of a red light Lorelei who had turned into a hysterical Venus of blonde hair and Bohemian culture.
The bat rolls from her thin strips of fingers and bounces off the massacre that she leaves behind.
Even good girls who carried daybreak in their eyes needed to murder something.
This is a night made for mayhem.
She's a lost girl on a lost highway of hope. The stars don't want to shine for her tonight; they are all chatting behind a miracle of overcast, hiding the gossip which makes them swollen and bright. A whole atmosphere knows the pain of one microscopic being that heralds the sun like a hammer. And it's in a buzz from the warfare between herself and tiny demons that hibernated in her skull.
The first swing is deliberately wild. Her hands choke at the wooden bat that is operated like a new limb. She has never done this before and it shows; a mouth that gasps and eyes that cinch tighter than the Virgin Mary's ****.
C r a s h --
Thousands of eyes now sparkle in the lamp light of the ghost town street she goes on a rampage in. Thousands of little pieces of glass that burst at the reckless impact of a girl gone mad. A car alarm begins to echo down the gutted out alleys, waking up all the three o'clock in the morning sleepers. She finds that the flashing of the headlights is bothersome to the muck of her eyes. Pills that make her dream-woven and dreamy are now just there to cushion the ricochet percussion, and are the culprit behind the sluggish slur of her body language when dragging the bat across broken glass and cool asphalt to go head to head with the automobile.
This is the statement she makes to the obnoxious thoughts circling like a murder of crows behind her eyes.
S m a s h --
A slow motion would show the exact point of no return; she spun her hips, rotated her shoulders, and went to bat against the luminescent eyes of the headlights. One after the other. Broken pieces of shrapnel propelled out to strike back at the sylph-like raider.
She was sick and stuck at the crossroads between being a believer and a non-believer. A wasteland of revelations that should have helped patch up the evidence of her broken parts only served up another batch of hidden aggression. Look at her; she's a deceitful scarlet letter stuffed in the fabrication of a fragile damsel. But there's a potent weapon that docked inside this sweet thing.
B a s h --
Window after window. A few strikes that came out viciously with the maniacal frenzy bubbling out from her pores. This is absolute mania that needs to be flushed from her system before she becomes septic. The only cure being how she damages the inanimate object in front of her, relishing the dismembered symphony of the dents and rabid cracks left in it.
She realizes once her face tips up to the watered down lights making a halo over the Windy City that her breathing is erratic. It's a risky pulse that vibrates her skin across her bones. She knows this feeling; it's bliss. It's the release like an orgasm that came after a tawdry ****-fest but was missing the filler of flesh or the wrinkling of sheets.
She relishes it. Savors the afterglow even as people are beginning to become curious, playing Peeping Tom out their windows to the rare sight of a red light Lorelei who had turned into a hysterical Venus of blonde hair and Bohemian culture.
The bat rolls from her thin strips of fingers and bounces off the massacre that she leaves behind.
Even good girls who carried daybreak in their eyes needed to murder something.