My getaway car, your trashy motel. It’s true I stole the cash, but you tried to steal my heart. When I ghosted you, you didn’t need to go and cut it out. Norman, here’s the thing about crime - you can’t kill your ghosts no matter how hard you try. Picture me and mother having tea, counting all the ways in which you disappoint and deceive, our incorporeal laughter echoic, haunting you until we consume all of air and space and mind, until you know only sleepless nights, until you are disappeared deep into a nothing, nowhere swamp, wrapped in cheap motel plastic and ghostly vices, entombed in sickness, Freudian-villains, and paper-thin excuses. Two murders, three dead. Death is tolling, tolling, tolling. Send me a postcard from perdition. Your shower, your knife. You said I called Mother crazy, you claimed she called me a whore, but when I poured Mother tea, she spoke her truth and we both asked for more. You stole her voice, my life. You put words in her mouth, put my body in your trunk. All of these vices - they’re you, they’re not us. Two murders, three dead. Death is tolling, tolling, tolling. You’re just another man calling us crazy, hysterical, overbearing, whores who’s in love with the sound of his ghostly voices. Until they besiege you, until you go mad when you realize you can’t kill your ghosts no matter how hard you slice. It’s you, it’s not us; your mind inside your body inside cheap motel plastic inside a trunk. Whenever you see two women having tea, I hope you think of Mother laughing at how much you suck with me. oh god norman! What a picturesque postcard hell! Two murders, three dead. Death is tolling, tolling, tolling. Death is tolling, tolling, tolling. Send me a postcard from perdition. Just kidding, don’t write. You suck.
