Sometimes I want to string you upon my wall. See Blood Eagle, Norse. I want to skin your face while you sleep. And keep you alive so I can wake you while wearing it. So you'll cry and I can chirrup in the sweet glee as the salt from your tears bores acid trails down your fucking face.
I AM TIRED OF YOUR FUCKING GAMES.
I'm sick of the way you lie. The way you showboat and endeavor to endear yourself to others. Seeking something you don't deserve. When I want fiction I'll read a book.
The thought of you makes me itch. I feel as though all the flesh I have is constricting me, and I know it's not my flesh but thoughts of you. Thick and sticky - like florida air. Some sick sadistic sauna that never shuts off. Burying you, crushing in upon you like some ghoulish additional layer of gravity that shouldn't exist. And the razor I've entombed in my cutis drags so easily along that line displayed in taxidermy guides.
And I'm not sure what's sicker. The fact that the thought of you makes me want to skin myself for fear of suffocation. Or that the blade slicing through to the dermis is the only happiness I know anymore.
And to your shock and horror I am hysterically happy, cackling with glee insurmountable. [Insurmountable - incapable of being overcome]
I'm suckling the blood from my fingers. Tonguing it from my arm. And if I gnaw just a bit harder I'll reach that pulsing beat within these soft tips.
What wounds me is the fact that you will assume this is about you. Because you just cannot help your arrogance. Everything I used to love about you is wearing me down. Before it crumbles to dust I'll make sure to carve out a piece for you to keep. You always had to prove you owned me in the end anyway.
And this life I'm living is a lie. So all I've left to do is throw it all away. What makes me sadder still is the knowledge that in the end it wouldn't make an impact in your life
Cessation depends on inconspicuous intercourse betwixt carotid and steel...
