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Pony: To all the rock stars I've killed before
3.31.2004
It was me. Mea culpa.
Forget the Courtney conspiracy. Kurt died because I did not love him enough to obliterate his self-loathing. Let's just say I helped him along on his journey.
Elliot Smith: I can't find the whispery words to express my regret. I know everyone is saying that your crazy-ass girlfriend did it. (After all, what kind of masochistic wingnut would stay with someone who threatened suicide weekly?). Someone ought to tell them they got it wrong. I did it. All that raw emotion laid bare in your fragile voice - I couldn't bear it. Too close to the bone, as they say. I pushed in the knife.
And it was me, not the crazed fan blinded with lust, who force-fed barbituate-spiked red wine to free-spirited Jimi, tying a scarf tightly around his throat, as the Wind. Cried. Mary.
John, forgive me. I was there that day outside the Dakota, and I could have thrown my body in the path of the bullet that killed you, who was better than all of us. I am the true dragon lady whom we all know was the bullet's real intent.
Jim Morrison, like a lamb in the bathtub; John Belushi whose girlfriend/blow buddy did three-five; and even Sid who tried to kill me first. I never could hold my heroin. All of you geniuses who died premature deaths. I failed you. I never understood you as well as Rolling Stone.
But celebrity journalists are ratting out the wrong girls. It was not the girlfriends or lovers. Ha! As if they even deserved so intimate a title. They were merely muses. Accessories. The people are bound to figure out that no one so insignificant could have snuffed out your bright flame.
Brother, I thought I would be straight here. It was I, the succubus, who just couldn't wrap my puny girl brain around your phenomenal artistic power. Frankly, it threatened me. So I sucked out your glowing, chosen life force while you drowned in your vomit. Sorry about that.
