My type,

Then, I got
**help.

slip my hands around your throat
slip my blade though your vein,
Little monster.
Throw the first punch
you're already dead
why not die twice?
Theres already blood on my hands.

Guilty pleasures of the deviant mind
scratches down the spine,
Bite marks along your side,
Love bites across your collar bones.
my little monster,
Make a sound
leave your moans down the hallway.

Latex gloves against the skin,
Making his incision
victims lie screaming
eyes wide open
he looks down
for he found his little monster,
Within.

Written at age 15... it's rusty:


**Last night you were the focus of my dreams.

There were others, swirling in and out, and making demands, and just visiting, but yours was the only face that stood out.

And you were happy, for once.

We sat on my bed just soaking up each other and you weren’t pressuring me into *** or out of your mind upset, there was some sort of resonating contentedness and I felt fuller than I have felt in so long.

Almost like it was back to last fall, and you still wanted me.

Then you got up, picked up a black bag and walked away, without a word or backwards glance. I might have been asleep, or merely preoccupied, or maybe I just sat there and watched you leave, as if I had known this was to be our fate all along. I remember wondering when you were planning on coming back, when deep down I knew.

You weren’t coming back at all.

     I woke up to a plethora of messages from other boys, like always, and I wondered why none of them had made it into my dreams.

And why none of them were from you.

Doesn't make her an
**Angel.

Full Head**

More often than not, words have failed me. I fill the gaps I create with stutters and stammers, even when I know that silence says so much more.

I’d rather be alone than with anyone else in the world.

I always wanted to fit in, but I simply did not know how.