let the poison rain crash into effervescent fire at the unrivaled
PITIFUL
realisation that
i'm meat in a slaughterhouse, let you be the pathetic knife.
beastly butcher my insecurities into little pieces,
small enough to swallow but size reasonable enough to whisper about,
that's what the CLIENTS want, right? they want it fresh,
they want it juicy enough to share, to bottle, to send to their cute friends
even though gluttony is a sin
but that's all they know, that's all they know, they're pigs,
but that's all they know - relishing my voiceless screams (that's the good stuff),
slapping my vulnerabilities atop a wooden display bench.
a taste that would make them all go on their knees,
deliriously screeching like dogs for more,
more even though i'm not enough.
in the end, it's all a trap and they're the ones with the knife.
so let it ring.
let the church bells ring, from me to you,
the resounding melody that
i don't owe you FUCKERS a goddamn thing
