Five o clock Corpses

Its cigarettes for breakfast
when suburbia is formaldehyde-frozen

It's 5:30 in the morning and
the scars aren't as pretty as alcohol and dim light
made them look the night before

I don't even like smoking
but oxygen is suffocating me and sometimes,
we all just need a little tar in our lungs

The widow next door is talking to herself.
Dear god, please speak louder.
i can pretend you're speaking to me

The metallic hum of the crickets is too much for this kid
maybe i'm still drunk
maybe i'm too sober

I'm rotting.
I know it.
I died two days ago.