I wade in milky bathwater of half-truths and falsities
until my fingers prune with spite toward the pale truth:
It's not me, it's you.
I'd like a thousand stags to trample on your vanity, crushing every ounce of you to dust.
I anticipate the anguish, sweeter than the vanilla-whites of your ugly eyes.
To say I thrive on your unhappiness is cold, but you're so pretty when you cry.