The whispers escape your lips in an alcoholic cloud.
Your meaningless words dance across the tip of your burning tongue.
I suffer nothing except the frost bite now enveloping my smoke-filled lungs.
The raging cloud continues by inhabiting my being,
I can feel the blades sharpening against my metal flesh;
immune.
The trucks outside whistle and weave by,
Silently screaming words I cannot find blindly.
The exhaust smells like you, doused in gasoline and other liquid flammables.
I think I've been hit by a truck.

The prom dress, magenta, is worn with a black spiked, leather collar that keeps her head on.
Her shoes are nothing but a glistening, golden trap.
Her arms are tattered, ripped to shreds, by lack of control.
Small voices get louder and angrier, and s c a r i e r
Razor be her statue superhero,
and she'll pay you in whorish favor.


POR FAVOR--
makeitstop
makeitstop
makeitSTOP!









I N e e d Y o u . . . < 3