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If Only...If only I could find some wayto make you dieand silence that scimitar smilethat slices so fineEvery time you open your lips and saythose words I loathe to hear.They're pushed past teeth like razor bladescutting remarks,Severing my last connection,with those fine slices,to all that gave me the strength to go on,I can't take much more,Of your bright stiletto eyes thatdrive deep, plungingpast the bullshit fog that coversthe fine scars you leftlast time we had one of these little talks,Or bloody assaults.I can't see which way to go now,There's blood in myeyes and ears and nose, clogging myonce so fine senses,Leaving me wide open to your tender,loving attentions.This is how you love me to beisn't it dear?Lost, confused and stumbling onwhile you finely trimaway the parts of me you can't stand tobe with any more.There's never rest for the wicked,or so you say,as fingers like scalpels caressand slice so finely,Sculpting a brand new me for your pleasure,Everyt
ThresholdStepping up to the thresholdwith a pocket full of cyanideand a handful of gummy bears.Best not get those two mixed up,At least, not just yet.Not sure why I'm here,Why my feet wanderedand led me off the beaten track.I swore I'd never come here again,Not while you're still breathing.Maybe that's it though,Maybe that's why I'm here,I'm here to see you die this dayand make this place my ownprivate monument of triumphant grief.You hurt me in ways no-oneelse could or would have dared,Ripped me up and scattered meto fertilise that budding, swellingego with which you're so pleased.I hope they tasted nice at least,The bitter tears mixed with sweetscreams marinading the meatof my shattered psyche for allthose years since we were last here.Times ticked on though and nowit seems like it's my turn at last,My turn to do as has been done,Here in this place, the placethat made me who I am today.And when I'm finally done I'llsit and watch you rot, true, it'llbe a while,
Silk and SkinThese stitches are so fresh and bloody,Your tongue so gentle as it laps at them,The tip exploring to the edge of each thread.These threads that weave with one anothera revelation made of silk and skin.A pane to let you see insidethe places where you walk so freely,Yet remain barred to all else who try.You're so very demanding you know,Always wanting to delve that little bit deeper,To pull free the guts of my scars and fearsclear of the barricades I patiently errected.Holding them up to the light of day,As you turn them this way and that,Puzzling over the mysteries of the gorey messthat you hold so carefully in your cold palms.It's pleasure almost to the point of pain,A rushing thrill that I can't control,Overwhelming my thoughts as your tongue laps,Somehow never interrupting you and the endlessquestions that spill from your painted perfect lips.I'm yours to do with as your whims will,You know that, you've always known that,Right from the very first day we met.I
Dear Dead PeopleDear Dead People,Please forgive theSlightly combativetone of this letterbut there's somethingthat I really have to say:BUGGER OFF!I'm serious now.I'm sick and tiredof catching glimpsesof you out of the cornerof my eye, or feelingyour dank, rancid breathon the back of my neck.AND IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY!(Not in a good way either)More that that, it never stops!You're always there,Watching from whereveryou've ended up and whileI'm sorry you're all dead,Really, I am, but still,This constant haunting'sreally starting to get me down,I'm sorry I wasn't more vocalin my sadness at your passing,I'm sorry I didn't seem to care.I don't enjoy the theatrics ofdeath you see; I don't havethis need to convey my feelings.So please,Just go away.At least for a little while?Please?Yours,Me.