She loves every one of her victims.
From the bottom of her cold well of a heart,
she loves them.
She would never kill
an innocent creature;
they all deserve it.
She stalks her prey,
she gets in close,
they begin to whisper
their evil little secrets.
No one is blameless.
She knows this.
Dig deep enough,
find the truth.
It is soiled.
She slits their throats.
You are released
from your sins,
she ensures them.
Through hot blood,
they promise they love her, too.
He was Daniel Kingery to the police.
Daniel Overstreet to his friends.
He was Dollar Dan on the streets.
He was Daniel,
he was wet rough kisses and anger and lust to me.
He found me one day,
18 years to his 37,
he found me when i was still a question mark trying to bleed red.
From behind a lens pointed at my naked flesh
he became a man of mystery,
he became the object of my desires.
I was a young, naive girl who got caught up in
how his pockets were always full- he flaunted it.
The flowers and the exotic dinners and the alcohol and the touch...
oh god, the way we fell into bed,
Then i fell in love on a broken sidewalk.
I was blind to the empty shadows in his eyes,
to the lines he had recited,
to the webs on his face.
I made a god out of a sociopath and i called him "love".
I was his nympho, his baby blue.
I became wild under his touch,
manic when he gave me his attention,
suicidal at his leaving.
I was a flower that once was his favorite,
but he left me on the windowsill at a slow, burning wilt
and forgot to water me most days.
Why water a flower when you could have a garden?
Have you ever hated what you loved
until even their existence ate at you?
i am beetlejuice
paris fashion week
but all my clothes are hand made in hell
i am the one girl your mother would beg you to stay away
from when you were little
i started saying "fuck" when i was ten
i never washed my hair
and my idea of fun was throwing rocks
at random strangers
i'll make you
want to bang your head against dirty public restroom stalls
until your brain bleeds out and you die
you listen to bob marley but i prefer the sex pistols
i don't want to get high
i'm not capable of feeling happy
i want to spray graffiti on the roofs of shopping malls and destroy the government
and you'll say you love me
and that you'll never leave
BUT AFTER THREE YEARS OF BEING UNDER MY THUMB YOU STILL DON'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND THAT I CAN'T FEEL THAT WAY
so i'll nonchalantly take shots of whiskey and take you out
on nightly killing sprees
that's my way of telling you i love you
but if you ever listen to what your mother told you
and you decide to leave me alone
i'll shoot up tar into the veins of your heart
so that there's no way
you can stay away
I have a friend I haven't spoken to in a while
Who, as it happens, is/was a sociopath--(w/e)
And I just wanna text him one day and say:
"Hey, man: are you still a sociopath?"
But what's he supposed to say to that?
"Nah man, I gave all of that up."
I mean, of course he's still a fucking sociopath.
What else would he be?
--Perhaps a wet pocket?