You ask, "Do you want to?" and the entirety of my being blisters in a pulsating no. Still, with a ticket burrowed deep within your pocket, entry has flourished into such a tangled expectation. Take a moment and I’ll bring my knees to meet once more, as I swallow this memory like the toxic cum of your existence.
No excitement, you can't even look at me, as the only thing that builds inside me are the feelings I had so conveniently convinced myself I had cast aside alongside with broken mirrors and clogged syringes.
Stirring until I melt into complete self-hatred, I find sex distilled into something I do for you. Do for you? Twist and churn, I'm inside out, stripped, pulped, naked and stark because tell me, what exactly, have you done for me? So you don't know that you are one, but you probably wouldn't care. You won't even remember me. No, not even at all.
So I muzzle some sickly phoniness into your ear, in an attempt to hurry this along. We migrate from such different worlds, and although storybooks and pop songs have taught me otherwise, where I come from such acts require basic levels of care. How naive of I to believe such nonsense, for long ago have I graduated from wearing my heart on my sleeve. Unstitching that abstraction, and upon crushing that damned organ into a fine powder, it now neatly resides within each and every one of my pores.
When you leave me, I am left emptier than before because sex doesn't soothe the orphaned child searching for mama nor does it quiet the gun in a soldier's hand, or loosen his grip around his woman's throat. Affection, adoration, and other nine letter words I am certain you are not capable of feigning.
How daring to sashay into my sphere only to remind me that the sole reason I chose to exist is precisely the reason it's all jiggled and jangled. You want to talk about fairness? Fine. But erase that steady smirk for I am not some vase in which you manipulated and poured yourself into, because my dear, don't you think every empty glass is just waiting to be filled?
That's why they call it a one night stand for to do what we do, do what we did, for more than a night, is nothing but masochistic, but fear not for you shouldn't be surprised. You are well read and suitably versed in my self-destructive patterns. Silence. Let us again satisfy the bastard with talks of fairness and feelings.
Ask and I shall answer quite honestly, I didn’t forget, just couldn’t find the time to care. Kiss me, for ‘tis something to feel nostalgic about later. With a blackened soul doctors claim they simply cannot cure, my fingers spun around the knob as you instead filled my cup with a bitter series of justifications. Hand me a paintbrush, and I’ll modge-podge myself into a series of oblivion. Darling, won’t you do the honors? Glue me with labels. Eventually the wind too has to sleep, and how sad it is to watch a lover fall victim to a superior ship.
I’m just another stock character in the plot you call life.
No excitement, you can't even look at me, as the only thing that builds inside me are the feelings I had so conveniently convinced myself I had cast aside alongside with broken mirrors and clogged syringes.
Stirring until I melt into complete self-hatred, I find sex distilled into something I do for you. Do for you? Twist and churn, I'm inside out, stripped, pulped, naked and stark because tell me, what exactly, have you done for me? So you don't know that you are one, but you probably wouldn't care. You won't even remember me. No, not even at all.
So I muzzle some sickly phoniness into your ear, in an attempt to hurry this along. We migrate from such different worlds, and although storybooks and pop songs have taught me otherwise, where I come from such acts require basic levels of care. How naive of I to believe such nonsense, for long ago have I graduated from wearing my heart on my sleeve. Unstitching that abstraction, and upon crushing that damned organ into a fine powder, it now neatly resides within each and every one of my pores.
When you leave me, I am left emptier than before because sex doesn't soothe the orphaned child searching for mama nor does it quiet the gun in a soldier's hand, or loosen his grip around his woman's throat. Affection, adoration, and other nine letter words I am certain you are not capable of feigning.
How daring to sashay into my sphere only to remind me that the sole reason I chose to exist is precisely the reason it's all jiggled and jangled. You want to talk about fairness? Fine. But erase that steady smirk for I am not some vase in which you manipulated and poured yourself into, because my dear, don't you think every empty glass is just waiting to be filled?
That's why they call it a one night stand for to do what we do, do what we did, for more than a night, is nothing but masochistic, but fear not for you shouldn't be surprised. You are well read and suitably versed in my self-destructive patterns. Silence. Let us again satisfy the bastard with talks of fairness and feelings.
Ask and I shall answer quite honestly, I didn’t forget, just couldn’t find the time to care. Kiss me, for ‘tis something to feel nostalgic about later. With a blackened soul doctors claim they simply cannot cure, my fingers spun around the knob as you instead filled my cup with a bitter series of justifications. Hand me a paintbrush, and I’ll modge-podge myself into a series of oblivion. Darling, won’t you do the honors? Glue me with labels. Eventually the wind too has to sleep, and how sad it is to watch a lover fall victim to a superior ship.
I’m just another stock character in the plot you call life.
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