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The Ready Aim Fire!
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Brakes Cut
These cement legs / spent all their nights just blacking out the days / with warehouse sex / where the echoes moaned and the shadows dripped with sweat / till the confetti drops / like fireworks in vacant parking lots, / so when we lit the wick, / my whiplash blood was begging me to quit. // But it starts slow / with a kiss outside the hospital, / the lip-gloss, the neck, and the undertow, / the fresh proud bruise art show. // Then you got me. I'm glad, but you got me. / The knots in my body all tell me you got me. / The fire's out in my matchstick mouth / and you got me reeling. // So the brakes are cut now / from my armored car doubt, / from all the years / that you weren't here. / So I spit the taste out / of every ghost town / and all the years / that I was barely here. // But our bad machines / are rusting out in sleepless violent sheets / and freezer-burn / where we used to ride those cold chemical cures, / and we're bloodshot, / weighing sins against the years that they could cost / to pay off / and hide behind our two-way mirror thoughts. // And who we were / is coming back to you, / and who we were / is coming back to me, too. // So I am coming back to you. // And all at once, / oh, you got me. You got me. I'm glad, but you got me. / The knots in my body all tell me you got me. / I'm caving in around your skin / and you've got me reeling. // So the brakes are cut now / from my armored car doubt, / from all the years / that you weren't here. / So I spit the taste out / of every ghost town, / yeah, I lost some years, / but I'm finally here, oh, / with my brakes cut / and my hands cuffed / to my bad thoughts / and to yours and your wars, / and with our brakes cut / and our hands cuffed / to my bad thoughts / and to yours and our wars.
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