The Fine Art of Making it out Alive

kiss me on the forehead, angel, before i go to sleep. i cant remember if it's thursday or december. i've been keeping track of days by counting hangovers and bottles on my floor. my mangle memory is making me mistake misfortune for forgiveness. i dont think i'll make it out alive. so promise you that you'll survive to bury me. just empty all the alcohol and chronical the chemicals, but dont forget the cigarettes. remember every ember. alright, i admit the past few months were broken and abused. now i'm used to the bleeding and unspoken words that kept me so confused. maybe we can get past these addictions, but the bodies piling up are a whole other story unless your stomach's strong enough. hell, maybe we can just pretend that this recovery wont depend on moderatoin and in the end the same routine wont leave me dead. just empty all the alcohol...or, baby, we're dead. tomorrow we'll wake up in time to stop this double suicide through kisses laced with cyanide and one last look through blood shot eyes. i guess this is what they call kiling yourself in small doses.