oo | Victorious

This won’t be the first time I’m dropped from the face of your planet, and let’s not forget your condemnation, your (ab)uses of whatever I was and are to you, areté, yeah fucking right.

Point counter point blank,                                                                
the unhesitant end.

oo | P(r)ay on Deliver(y)

            I’ll be your G(‡)Dless mechanical bride when you promise you’ll seal me up in a watertight coffin. I request you don’t let my holographic entrails of the suspected fifth dimension leak from my cracked ribs stamped with so many “and then, and thens,” considering they’re all in reminisce of you. The funny thing is, after attempting such a bold statement of nearly dead celebrity, I escaped the clavicular pain and exposed myself to the survivable sun—but the story doesn’t stop there (it never does without a camera flash as vitamin supplement for the hollow soul). Reaching the bottom, I strode and still decided a healthy choice should be accompanied with an eventual, unavoidable sickness.

oo | Comedically Divine

            You make me girlishly happy, I’m giving you the blame, handing it over, it’s all yours so let me melt in your hand because we know I’ve become a puppy dog to your love already -

&  I’m falling hard flat and center, hook line and sink(h)er… you could be the ship I finally sail away on from my island of self-deceit and who would have known it would ever be possible—birthed from my bane of existence, I became yours, and I thought that was a good thing? What was I thinking I’ll forever wonder and such as ponderings, but who the hell knows I suppose. . . The point I’m trying to make here I’m unsure of, but what can I say, I’m a four year old and I need your hand to hold to find my way home, back home to you.

            Pouring out to you would be the ultimate as long as you don’t pour out to me a part of your community, I know you’re the Giver, so give give give. I’m waiting to receive for I think I’m about due, pregnant with this principle on this precipice for the catcher is peering out of the rye with a pair of pliers, and eventually they’ll arrive with a spanner for my ribs. 

The breathing in of my entrails is upon us - 

This will end in you being worth my every second

      and me being a complete waste of your time