I had a friend and he always liked to copy everyone. Big watches and leather. Denim jackets and palladium shoes. Camel smokes and heavy metal. He always liked what he did.
Sad or happy, he was there. Always copying our modus vivendi. Because he could. Because we let him. Because it was in. Because there was no turning back.
"The toys all smell like children
And scab-knees will obey
I'll have to kneel on broomsticks
Just to make it go away"
Marilyn Manson sang privately in my bedroom parties. Our friend always mimicked us no mattter what he thought of us. No matter what we thought of him.
A guitar solo. A poem. A tear. He always did the same. We were one. We were one big mess. Same colors. Same shadows. My walls were red. But we could spot him in the dark.
"You were my mechanical bride
You were phenobarbidoll
A manniqueen of depression
With the face of a dead star
And I was a hand grenade
That never stopped exploding
You were automatic and as hollow as the "o" in god"
Manson kept singing. Our friend went to the toilet. We waited. He came back.
"How was it?", I asked
"Relieving", he fired back
"What do you mean?" I continued
"The darkness left my body", he said.