“Don’t forget about me and I won’t harm you. Harm is something that should be savored and maybe you want that. Whisper to me the type of harm you obsess over and I’ll become it. Shape-shift, make-shift, torment-tastes like homemade kneels. Concealed-spread like bible pages between your thighs, paragraph-(f)lies. Dripping in what you forgot you wanted, seduced by my tonality in the mind I fucking haunted. Rid yourself of me? I stick like thick lines of spit holding together your happiness. Be careful what you wish.”
I’m obsessed with the way you kneel, the way you tuck your feet. The way my thoughts hit your lips and the course your thighs and calves meet. It’s cold in this room, it’s cold in these hearts. We’re depleted of the chemicals to survive this world apart. Evolving to extinction, chasing distinction, all types. Your face so pale, blank, a canvas untouched. I see it in your eyes, the way your calves widen from your thighs, our mess glistens in the night. I hate to see the only connection we have is in your lines of spit, thick. My wisdom lines, lines, lines are a consequence of time that cannot be snorted. Words spin, distorted, but mine certainly can’t be avoided. Whatever you think I am, I’m much more fatal than reported.