Stockholm Or, Pulp Fiction / The Passenger
I knew you loved me when you shot him dead
We were born to die
You, with your cigarette habit and carhartt jacket
Me, lettin’ people walk all over my body
And, I was standing there, in that diner
Crying like some lost thing
And you looked at me
And I swear I was the only thing you believed
Fragile, you’re fragile, you told me
Threaded my fingers through your hair (hell, you could kick me down the stairs)
And we were just two, laying in that motel room
And I bandaged your hands when they got bloody
And I’ll stain my pants with the hydrogen peroxide as I hold your hand on my thigh,
Trying to divine, trying to rectify,
I was trying so hard to make it right
Rampage, massacre, murder—
Just two lost souls in that diner
Felt the rawbone sickness of your mouth
And the undercurrents when you pulled me in
And you will lick a strip along my chest and
down
my neck
And I will ignore the pistol on the side table
Baby, baby, you said and I swear I think you’ll fuck me even when I’m dead
And your shotgun snapped back into place
(there was so much blood on your face)
And I smelled the fry oil and the gunpowder and the killing floor
Barrel to my face
And I was just standing there, staring at you
So you snagged me by the shoulder
And dressed me in your clothes
And we just drove
I tried to ask you why
But you just gripped my thigh
And in the neon light
You wiped the slaughter off me
And told me to breathe
Wearing your old Motörhead t-shirt
Lay down in the backseat and drink a fifth of whiskey
You’re so good to me baby, I said,
Even though there was a part of me wishing on a star for you to drop dead
And it ain’t right for you to look like an angel when you’re killing something
You got sad fucking eyes and in my dreams when I stare up at the sky you grab my thighs
And hold me like it’s all you know how to do right
Choke me up against the wood panel,
And I’ll say sorry until I feel sick
Until I make you sick, until your tongue is thick and your rawhide skin is ripped
Robbing convenience stores
Like for you it’s some chore
You get me my favorite candy and I swear I watch you finally breathe
When, I bite
as you drive
And at night, in the backseat of your worn down 1970 Chrysler
And in the wreckage of our trail
I will pick the shrapnel of my love out from your wrists
And I will kiss your broken fist
And I will pretend like this isn’t mutilated, mutated, and downright sick
And you said, I love you, I love you.
And I dug my nails into you because it was all I knew how to do
Coedine cocaine coca cola poison fucking in the backseat
(and I will try not to think of brain matter and skull fragments and the way you taste like salt and violence)
Killing’s all you seem to know how to do,
Is it foolish to want you?
You’re just so soft, you said and you pressed your head against my chest
And I swear it was the first time you learned how to rest
Held you like glass—like I was wrapping my mouth around the barrel, like you were you were going to scream and then beg me and say that you’re sorry for being so mean—
And it hurt so bad
And I knew I wanted you the way a knife wants a wound
And even if you kill me by the roadside,
baby,
you and I
were born to die