It's not the subject matter, but the formation in which the letters march that'll make you cringe.

There is nothing more I want than an unsevered hymen and unexplored frame, but you can not grant me such a rebirth. You are neither my God, nor my creator. But instead, you offer me a pinch and a prick, so I can forget for an hour or two, when and why, who and how, what exactly was it I so eloquently wished for, spent decades blowing birthday candles out towards in hopes of obtaining? Can't remember for the world is such a pretty place behind those dope tinted glasses. It was free, so I took all I could. Slice after slice of lost hope I gorge myself on, until my whole existence blurs into a lullaby of calm numbness. Can we filter this experience, grind it into a fine sand until a murmured steady stillness clenches my spine?

Does a silly sloppy label even exist for such an endeavor? I imagine myself with a swollen stomach, my entire reality nothing more than something to be stamped down into the scrapbook of a future generation. I will never come to you with a teary white damp face and knobby broken knees nor will your arms ever be stuffed with the softness of young flesh or your nose filled with such a sweet innocence, but as a lie down for the final time, neither will mine.

So now, I leave you to choke within the cocoon of your own creation.