This is a disaster;
My my, what a wreckage you make
Of everything and everyone you touch,
Leaving them gasping for closure,
Hoping someday the answers
Will fall from the sky, or
From your towering mouth
And slimy breath,
Then maybe the pieces you’ve tangled
Between us can be placed ever so precisely,
Floating from the air in your lungs,
Into something more concise.

Who are you
To leave this world so deflated and disillusioned?
Go ahead, learn nothing of your barbarism,
Soon you will collapse into obscurity
By your own feeble hands
And all that you alleged to stand for
Will bite you in the ***.

Oh, whispers in the wind,
I beg of you, please,
tell me of things
departed within
the crevices of my memories
before I lose
all semblance of self.

Recall for me
all I cannot retrieve;
I’ve become so fractured
that the rain has washed me out
and the clouds have fogged
images to dust,
leaving my senses rusty,
taunting me with flashes
of lost recollection.

I must be a vampire
because every time I peer into
my tall, demanding mirror
I don’t see myself
in any reflection
bouncing back.

You mean to tell me
That every letter typed out
with grubby,
Grease-covered fingertips,
Should be laid out in truth?
"What’s that?" Never heard of it.

You must be starving,
your beastly belly never satisfied,
never satiated by the image
of a woman’s *******;
not her neck nor her thighs
could quench your burning,
relentless, shameful tastes
for flesh.

Of course, you're starving,
where could you run
when nothing would stop her desires,
her blood boiling, heart aching desires,
for the body, you so brazenly touched,
to be the one thing to light you on fire;
her voice, amplified by all the innocents you touched,
calls out to the hunters who
stare into your loveless, ravenous eyes,
knowing that you will always be starving.