FRENCH KISSING THE BARREL

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French Kissing the Barrel

I put my tongue on the steel because it’s the only thing in this room that doesn’t lie.
The barrel doesn’t whisper apologies, just screams die.
It doesn’t perfume the air with rotting sugar and call it devotion.
It doesn’t tell me I’m brainless — watch me prove it in Execution.

You want proof? I’ll redecorate your walls with it.
Brian matter is a better shade of honesty than anything that’s ever dripped of your fucking lip.
Call me hollow again — I’ll carve the word into the plaster with fragments of my jaw.
Every tooth that explodes is a punchline, every crack in the enamel is me laughing at your fucking face.

You strut around like goddess in silk, spraying poison from a bottle calling it blessing the space.
You’re a clearance-rack tragedy, begging strangers to clap at the sound of your collapse.
Your scent doesn’t cover rot — it smells like relapse.
You smell like failure pretending to be forgiven.
Like Febreze on a corpse, like cheap wine at communion.

I’d rather french kiss this barrel till my lips rip apart than breathe you in again.
I’d rather gargle the blast and let it destroy my throat than choke on the way you “love” sin
You say I’ve got no brain? Good. Then I’ll paint the walls in a cryptic number.
Plaster them with what’s left, hang it like a fucking diploma.
Watch my body slump over, eternal slumba.
Frame it above your bed so the next sucker you fool can see the drama.
You’re good at:
breaking, draining, erasing.
I don’t like. I don’t love. I don’t feel, fuck closure.
I need the recoil singing.
French kissing the barrel till my teeth exploding.
That’s my way of saying I hate you louder than words were expressing.