This Place Is A Prison
by
The Postal Service
A/N: Please enjoy the second installment in this trilogy. Hi Mr. Cunningham!
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Body of Christopher Creed" by Carol Plum-Ucci. Nor do I own "This Place Is A Prison" by The Postal Service. Don't sue!
This Place Is A Prison
This place is a prison
I feel so trapped, so engulfed. The music is thumping through my veins at 100 miles per hour and I feel as though my heart will burst at any moment. The cheap perfume of the slut next to me is stuffing my nostrils and suffocating me slowly with the smell of vanilla and alcohol. The flashing lights distort my vision and I swear fairies are dancing in my eyes.
And these people aren't your friends
Raucous laughter pounds against my ears and I feel nauseous. The very sight of these people makes me sick. With their trendy clothes and hair extensions, I can't help but notice the white powder dusting their upper lips. I glance at the movie star across from me and can't help but shudder. She looks just like her. The endless eyes, the dusting of freckles across her cheeks and breasts.
Inhaling thrills through $20 bills
I can't remember, and I don't want to forget. I breathe deeply and feel my body relax. Before I know it, the tears are streaming down my face and I can feel her fingertips dancing up my forearm. I look up and she smiles down at me. Her skin is hot and clammy to the touch, so different from Megs. Her lips are feather light against my temples and I am lost in her neck. I begged Meg. I begged her to run away with me, to find a new life together and flourish in our love, but she refused and now I'm emptying my loneliness into Genevieve's sticky, open mouth.
And the tumblers are drained and then flooded again
We made love last night, and all I could see were Megs curls splayed out beneath me.
And again
Genevieve's hands encircle my waist as I ask myself how this happened. How did it get like this? Sitting in the dark club, faking my happiness to those around me, to myself. The rotten smell of cigarettes makes me cough and wretch, and yet I smoke them every night. Just as the taste of Genevieve makes me gag, I bed her just as often. Even when I would rather make love to Meg just once more in my life than bed Genevieve every day for eternity.
There are guards at the on ramps armed to be teeth
I ran from Steepleton to escape my lies, not to immerse myself in fresh ones that threatened to choke the life out of me. I was trapped, caught up in my web of false reality. I was tired, so tired. Just as they had in Steepleton, my lies had finally caught up to me and I knew that soon I would be cornered by them with no way out. I couldn't stay here any longer.
And you may case the grounds from the Cascades to Puget Sound
But you are not permitted to leave
I was trapped in a never-ending cycle it seemed. Change locations, give myself a new idenity, start a new life, only to be caught up in the same reoccurring lie each time. I had led myself into a life of fantasy and illusion, one it seemed I would never be able to escape.
I know there's a big world out there like the one I saw on the screen
In my living room late last night
It was almost too bright to see
As the world around me surrendered to the pulsing beat of the music and Technicolor daydreams surrounding me I found myself clutching helplessly to her soft, supple dress as her hands flickered to the nape of my neck. For as much as I wanted to, I couldn't let go. I was happy in my fantasy, or was so in that moment as my mind gave a violent jump and my hands were threading through Megs charcoal curls. Then just as soon as it had come, it was gone, and Genevieve was the one pressed hotly against me. My lips trailed her clavicle as I hoped that the taste of her flesh would revive my love for her. Last night, as her naked form lay tucked against mine, my eyes had flickered to the luminescent screen suspended above us. It was an image of a far distant land; one I knew I had dreamt of as a boy, one I had wished to see when I had left my home. What had become of my dream? I had been gone for five years, and had accomplished nothing, nothing but the loss of my innocence and the slow deterioration of my mind.
And I know that it's not a party if it happens every night
Pretending there's glamour and candelabra
When you're drinking by candlelight
This wasn't the miraculous life I had dreamt of. This was a gilded, flashy prison that had drawn me in with its spinning lights and promises of pleasure, the sweet promise of hallucinations, and the dreams of a woman's luminescent spine.
What does it take to get a drink in this place?
Swirling white fog claws at my throat as it trickles from the glass. The lights blur and swim in and out of my eyes. Tears prick at my pupils and a sob escapes from my dry, clenched mouth.
What does it take, how long must I wait?
The small black drop of happiness dissolves on my tongue and I am flying away from this madness. Higher and higher I soar, my pulse is racing and my tongue is trembling. Sticky sweet skin is pressed against my own and I am falling, plunging into a mass of tangled black curls and phosphorescent skin.