When We Parted

dsc_6815© 2017 City of Broken Dreams

Tonight I go to hell
For what I’ve done to you
This ain’t about regret
It’s when I tell the truth

The Afghan Whigs, “Debonair”

Kiss me. Suck me. Bite me. Grab a hold of my skin and strip the flesh from my bone. Just don’t love me, baby. Because baby, I’ve got no more love to give. Broken dreamers are destined to always have broken dreams. And all my dreams of you have you been shattered, crushed, and scattered around me like handfuls of fine white sand. You surround me, disintegrate around me, blow away from me, lost in a desert among an infinite number of broken dreams. And now, the only way you’ll ever make me shed a tear is if a tiny particle of your memory gets caught in my eye. Maybe you hate me now, but feeling you slowly slipping away between my fingertips reminds me of when I used to gently run my fingers through your hair. It reminds me of when I used to be sweet. Baby, I used to be so sweet. But not anymore. Now I can only pretend. I know I may dress up like the victim sometimes, but you should know better than anyone else that I’d rather play the assassin again—it’s my favorite. Will you bleed for me when I cut you? When I sever you. When I cleave you. When I dismember you into nothing but human meat. Well don’t bleed for me. Because maybe I’ve become a vampire. And maybe I’ll end up only taking your blood too. Suck you like I used to suck you. Fuck you like I used to fuck you. Hurt you like I used to hurt you. Maybe I can’t stop. Maybe I won’t stop. Not unless you can stop me first. Are you man enough to do that, motherfucker? To stop me dead in my tracks. To end the war before the war has even begun. To hurt me, baby, like I’m only going to hurt you. Because the fire has already been started; the gasoline already been poured, the match already struck. All that’s left to to do is just wait for everything else to fucking fall apart. I think I told you once—warned you once—that eventually everything moves towards entropy. The universe. This Life. And most of all, us. Disorder and chaos—it’s the natural progression of the cosmos. Fucking chaos—it’s the natural disorder of my goddamn heart. And it isn’t contagious just as long as you can let me go. Just let me go. Let me fall away. Let me fall down. And I’ll just lie here for awhile. Or maybe forever. Lying here, rotting away in the hot desert sun. And the insects and carrion gods will come and remove the skin from my flesh. And naked, bloody, and exposed, the meat will eventually fall away from the bones. Because everything always moves towards entropy—just like I told you once, such a long time ago. And all that will remain of me will be my bleached white skeleton, lying here under the hot desert sun. White light, white heat—shine on me, scorch me, cleanse me of my treachery. Petrify my bones until I turn into stone. And I promise you that I’ll wait forever, in the desert of broken dreams, until the forces of nature come to me—to weather me, to punish me, to pulverize me—to turn me into nothing but dust. Until finally, one day, I’ll just blow away. To be lost among an infinite number of broken dreams.     


The Afghan Whigs. “Debonair.” Gentlemen. Elektra Entertainment, 1993.

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