Don’t make me sad, don’t make me cry
sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough
I don’t know why

Come and take a walk on the wild side
Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
You like your girls insane

Choose your last words
This is the last time
Cause You and I
We were born to die

Lana Del Ray



Needle fucks vein. They hiss; it’s just a small pinch. My smile says that it doesn’t matter. Lips and tongue lick as my veins throb, sky to rose, slinking through the sheets. I bleed well; the best that they have ever seen. Coppers stench meets nose ring. Eyes roll. Incompetency bores me. And as quickly as it began, it is over. This is their matinee. They save the rest of our failures for another day.

And they leave me to bleed through another night.

My vein fucks yours. Wrist to wrist. Hip to hip. Your teeth clink against the piercings, my intended shrapnel. You are hungered; but I am starved. I see your mouth curl into question; Are you well enough? I bite your lip and my eyes slap away the insult. I do not draw thorns, for I am not cruel like them. Rather, my hot tongue is the only reminder that you need. I arch and I kiss, and you shall not ask otherwise.

I know that you don’t understand. For, the sick cannot become the wanton. It is an oxymoron if there ever was one. One moan cannot trade the place of another. The same is said of screams. No. We must be languid in our beds, doe eyed and wilted with the heaviness of our own fate. We cannot don lace and black, silk and sex. Society feeds us our morphine, tucks us in beneath our virginal quilts and saves the vivacious for another, whose scans aren’t a doctor’s pornography. But that’s the thing about disease; we become as shrewd as our captor. If you were to pull back the curtains around our beds, you would soon learn that we had pulled back the lace around our breasts.

You don’t understand my intensity. I don’t want to know your name; I want to know the scars in your beat and the vixen that placed them there. I laugh until my lungs burn and cry until I vomit. Why must I be one or the other? Why must I forever be an extreme?

When you are like me, there is no middle ground. There is no pleasant or placid, neutral or naive. There is death and there is life. There is heaven and there is hell.

There is you; and then there is me.

There are different degrees of dying. It is when I hear a gurgle that my eyes wince shut and I pray to a God that I don’t believe in, for this very reason. They are always too young. Babies, still young enough for denim overalls to be sweet. Their Mummies wheel them past in their prams, with the nasogastric feed tucked in amongst the nappies. The five year olds, stark on their backs in the hallways. His eyes were dead. His body wasn’t far. I smiled. ‘Hello darling. Hello little darling’. He never even blinked. Then there are the ventilators, little girls with bulging eyes. You must not smile at their Mummies. There is nothing to smile about. We share waiting rooms, wards and wars. Gurgle. Groan. Gasp.

This is the sound that children make when they are dying.

So when I come home to your bed, do not ask me why. Do not ask me why we must kiss until your lungs scream. Let my hot tongue work in silence, feverishly and adamant. May your lungs shudder amongst mine. Let us gasp for something that is still alive.

Crack. This was her head against the windscreen. Thump. This is her head as it meets the dashboard.

Scream. This is when she remembers that she wasn’t the only one in the car.

And now silence. The other two have already died.

Lift on three. One. Two. Three. This is Kate. Front passenger in a double fate. Boyfriend survived. Boyfriend Mother’s deceased. Other youth deceased on impact. Both declared dead at scene.

Lift on three. I lift my right arm, weighed down in cannulas and steady drips. I silence my machines. It doesn’t seem right for the room to be anything other than silent. I dare to look across the room. They are working on her. We are one metre away. Her Daddy is on the phone. He is babbling. It’s Kate. It’s Kate.

Kate was in a double fate.

So when I am discharged, do not ask why I slam you against the wall. Do not ask why you must lift me against the scratch of the plaster and scrape my spine in a frenzied attack. Bite at me, and fill the room with our frantic, broken sound.

Just please don’t let it be silent.

Pat. Pat. Rest. Pat. Pat. This is what a little girl sounds like when she is playing. When she is playing in-between Chemo. She is running, or so we pretend. Her big brother, all of ten, brought her here in the wheelchair. It is a lounge room for only the sickest. She plops herself next to me, curious at the Popsicle sticks, shattered in front of me. I hope that she doesn’t notice that when I smile at her, it shatters too. Blue eye shadow. Red lipstick. Six years old. Bald head. I tell her how pretty she is, as she strokes her scalp, all too aware that there is no God for this girl. . I wonder if she knows that too. She asks me to paint a butterfly upon her cheek. There’s no tube sitting there today. She is proud. And so she gets her butterfly. As the little Rapunzel waves goodbye, I say a silent prayer.

Please, don’t let her die bald.

So now as your eyes fill with the lace upon my skin, as I draw you in, pull at my hair. Lace it through your fingers, and move with my golden bondage. Let me grab at yours, and call your name. See the strands tease you, let my hair play curtain with my nipples. Let me dangle it, slowly, across your naval and down your thigh. And afterwards, curl it with your fingers once more.

Just don’t let me forget that it’s there.

Split. Scratch. The split of skin. The scratch of their needles. The snap of their gloves and plastic packets. They don their gowns and fill me with their poisons. Electrodes kiss my nipple and scalpels paint their tattoos.

When I wake from the latest of their performances, naked in their theatre, there are four wounds in place of one. And so I look to the ceiling.

When my veins suckle on the drips that they feed me, and I wobble at the smell of the alcoholic wipes, I look to the ceiling.

When they tell me that it’s failed, and that we are running out of options, I defy tears and look to the ceiling.

Always, I look to the ceiling.

So tonight, do not be shocked when I grab your wrists and pin you to the sheets. Meet your eyes with mine. Do not look at the plaster above my head. While I love you, I will begin to cry. My tears will slip to your lips, and still we must love.

Don’t make me sad, don’t make me cry
sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough
I don’t know why

And still we will love, and my spine shall arch. You will gasp as I shudder. Hair will pull and lips shall bite. On three we shall rest.

But don’t you see? That’s the whole point.

On three we shall rest, and I will have to remember.

Veins fuck. Your name I hiss. Pat with force, and rest later. Split and scratch. Throb as our teeth clink. Push me against the plaster and let’s begin once more.

A last gasp.

Choose your last words.

This is the last time.

Because you and I; we were born to die.


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