the beekeeper.

repetition.

oh i love to make promises i can't keep with myself.
"i'm serious this time."
but in all honesty,
i've never been serious about anything.
i have told myself time and time again,
"the older the sexier but the older the badder and the older the crueler" but
ohhhh,
dear,
i didn't listen to my own advice yet again.

i have crossed the yellow police tape
and i have stepped over my own charred carcass
and i have walked through the crime scene where my murderer now sits,
waiting once more to attack the same resurrected being.
i have ignored sherrif crews's megaphone
and i have ignored the deputy's screams
"you will die! you will die! you will die! you will die!"

i will die,
but still i walk,
all because this feeling in my gut
and these hums of pleasure and interest inside of my head
compel me to look upon the face of the murderer,
the new serial killer
(the old one has been long reprimanded)
and plant a disgusting, big kiss against that scruffy cheek.

oh, i am not smart.
this was the same situation
in the same exact place
where i was last murdered,
where He took a Zippo lighter,
dowsed me in gasoline,
and set me aflame.
yes, i believe i am rather stupid.
seeing my future perpetrator leaned up against the movie theater wall,
waving with the biggest smile on his face,
calling me to come watch the film where i know he will push me down the long, sharp staircase,
then scoop me up,
broken bones and all,
and stuff me into his red car's small trunk
where he will soon merge onto the interstate and slam his breaks
so the car behind us jams its ugly, round nose into my already aching body.

melodramatic, sure, if that's what you'd like to call it,
but to me it's just truth rapped in a vision.
this has all happened to me before,
and i'm going to let it happen all over again.

lord, i am a fool,
not caring for their own life and not caring that i know this tin-man will oil me up and chop me into little pieces with his axe.

i'm a fool, alright.
o'malley has made an appearance again
and he has taken a different form.
the repetition,
oh,
the repetition.
i should know better,
but i guess i'm infatuated with older boys and in love with death.