To hold myself against myself is a habit of dark skin; scratching my olive palms across prickly cement. Take a bow in the mirror and see no reflection. Say you are reflected. Say something else. Say nothing. Those lucky charmed looks have spoiled your dying heart. Your intense desire for the forever lover has been dawdled. There, no one has discharged your respected, insubordination mind - they are too busy ******* the minds of cheap leached lips and tongue. It always was for that one special moment of feeling pleasure. Get used to fox fangs dragging you viciously through skeleton gravel. Get used to the skeleton. Have no fear of being contagious. Have knowing that I am insufficiently sediment. I want felicity again.

I want to missile my motion into a tunnel of a gun, drag my head in circles so slow, and tell you to kiss the words right out of me. Sometimes, I react in a push; pushing myself up to my throat with a knife spaced evenly out in narrow-tasted heads of candy licked sticks and dives of veins into cut stripped skin.
Faced in pattern, as if, somehow this tight burn of loose liquid could easily slide its warm acid down my throat and into my guts; swinging on my organs like it has no deal or it has no conscious to release me from stumblin