The Author.

The ink stains on the pillowcase had dried
And what remained what he had to hide
He swallowed his pride
And, looked the plot hole in the eye

I am the reader of the stories he writes
And, the reason his face is covered in bug bites
I am the singer of the songs that you burn into night
I own the endless hands that reach for satellites

He watched The Septic Tank Queen read ammunition magazines
And she sucked on the steam of a freshly rotted man
She brushed the dust off her shoulders
Sat down at the piano
But, she slipped on her shadow
Cus she was staring at her hands

So ship him off to stay with "Us", and pat him on the back
Stack the glass actors with wreathes around their necks
A wave crash
A memory lapse
A signature on a

(Blank Contract)
So, bring him to "Us", so we can
Take him from "You", then we'll
Bring him to "You", so you can
Take him from "Us"

The bus
STOP

Made a little crack in the distance
He tried to trie his shoes, but his feet wouldn't listen
And the windshield glistened as it met with her head
And, a voice on the radio rang out and said

"What are you looking at?"
(Not "You")
"Who do you think you are?"
(Not "You")