Lip Rings and Empty Smiles

I can't figure you out,
an enigma constantly on my mind.
You drink poison pure and, breathing
suburban fumes into your lungs,
tell me about how you once loved a boy.
I tell you I love you, and you laugh--
a simple reponse because you have no other;
it's habitual and an easy escape.
Scream me something beautiful--
bang bang and kill me, baby,
if you won't cure me.

Or take me or leave me
as I am, crying in a corner.
"Love as fragile as a wineglass," and you
understand the allusion and smile.
I tell you I'm not cool enough for you,
and you tell me,
"if you stopped your bitching and moaning,
the world would be alright."

You barely smile, instead
lending out your happiness for a dime.
(I'll take it for the asking price.)
There's a ring of silver through your lip,
and it chatters in the wind
because you called to tell me you're freezing,
and would I carry on your legacy when you're dead and gone?

I see the lines on your wrists,
restrain myself from kissing them softly.
You're long past your sell-by date.
You're the most beautiful
and the most terrible thing I've ever seen:
which would you like to hear first?