dancing after death

now take what i offer, straight up the nose, down the throat

it's a bearable bruise on your conscious

She hands him a tonic of sorts to help the hangover and sluggishly he grabs for it. He looks at it for a brief moment before sighing quietly, taking it and handing the bottle back to her — but still the mention of food he shakes his head. He’s not sure he can eat anything right now without getting sick, just the mere thought alone sends his stomach into a spiral.

Her chiding, however, is met with a small sigh too. “Maybe I want to feel worse.” And he did, he wanted to feel just as bad as everything else of him, the momentary lapses in the pain from the numbness the alcohol brought. But her question for a moment takes him off guard, and he rolls the empty bottle of the tonic between his fingers, refusing to look at her, refusing to look at anything. “Because I don’t need to find her anymore.” He pauses, lips curving into a slight frown. “I don’t need to have people on the lookout for her when she’s dead again, huh?” His accented voice comes out in a flat rumble, steel eyes lingering on the bottle between his fingers.

but don't it feel good? don't you feel calmer?

i am the way and the life in the best looking truth