"You are killing me."
"Only in self defense", I
banter back at her.

A massive *******
but it's in my gene pool and
therefore my nature

****** choking,
pulling her hair and pushing
her throat in my hand.

Tell your boyfriend that
you want to **** someone else
but you still love him.

Branded with bite marks.
I let her tear me apart,
inside and/or out.

Listening to her
short breaths between my tight palms.
just like an angel.

I'm of the angels;
horrific, unnatural.
Gorgeous, but rarely.

Nothing in this ****
mistake of an existence
is flinching at me.

-She believes in some
value system that merits
her 'good" behavior.

-She has a conscience.
The notion seems so naive
looking back I guess.

I have great secrets;
I get away with ******
(Metaphorical).

Typical *******
with a heart made of copper
but so close to gold.

Sometimes I feel like
I know all of the sad girls
in the whole wide world.

They call me crying,
or text me in the middle
of panic attacks.

They want attention
but only for themselves so
I disappoint them.

Morally bereft;
selfish for not suffering,
or not like they do.

I am an angel,
but only by default, or
just for being here.

Only for staying
a stationary angel;
to suffer with them.

I have grown heavy,
from their tears and loneliness
and their jealousy.

I can't fall asleep,
at least easily, because
of all the sad girls.

You craft your own sins.
Do anything; whatever
your heart desires, babe.

Three days later and
I decided I'm wasted
through stranger methods.

***, coffee, cheap food,
sleep deprivation, music
[loud to keep **** out].

Dark sunglasses, or
general debauchery.
Keeping it simple.

Keeping it stupid,
no reason for the format.
Meaningless to me.

I exist in their
sins, held responsible by
association.

They are crafting me
out of their foolish mistakes.
Eager accidents.

I drown in their filth
and come back completely whole.
The resurrection.

"The Lovely *******;
innocent to innocence/
No stranger to loss."
~
On resurrection;
Die once and live forever?
That's not sacrifice.

Christians are insane,
but I am too in their eyes.
It gives me comfort.

That's no martyrdom,
nothing selfless in the flesh.
They still consume it.

Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.

Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.

-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us

and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].

-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.

Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.

Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,

where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.

Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.

War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.

Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",

or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.

Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.

We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.

Alone on Sunday.
It means; "to procrastinate".
means, "time to reflect."

I  actually
expected you to do this,
and that feels ****** up.

I expected this,
and I should feel *******, but
it's just whatever.

~

Jay texted me, "hey"
and I  felt my whole body
sighing in relief

as I messaged them.
Things are to be okay.
Guess that's how it goes;

Can't predict these things,
but if you tried you'd be close.
I'm not clairvoyant,

but I know enough.
Enough to see where this ends.
Things stay as they've been.

I hear her wake up
and begin mooing in pain
until she’s crying.

I’m incapable/
entirely useless to help.
So I’m listening.

I grip my bedsheets
and ponder how blood ecapes
the white of my fist.

Everything I’d ****
is somehow intangible.
Magically and

Invisibly, it
drifts about these halls, crying;
Hate turning to fear.

Grip something solid,
and wish it were the throat of
that **** ghost, haunting...

My dreams are empty,
my greatest fears are realized,
my sleep is disturbed.

I am alone now,
listening to cries of pain.
My knuckles are white.

My acting debut
was recorded at midnight.
My starring role, "Guy,

tripping on acid."
My fifteen seconds of fame.
Eating rice paper

and looking "spaced out."
I also got to look bored.
It was pretty cool.

It's been hard to write.
Things are mostly okay now.
Guess I'm not sorry.