Srpt  twentu secibd

I should be writing.
Serpent.
A violin makes your hands bleed.
But that heat in my chest should make your waters break.
And maybe later my assumption will grow into a child.
Oh it is not enough.
Heading what you've said into a stale, infertile land.
With mono, you delay our introduction.
Baby, be my baby girl.
Count a blessing in your hands.

I'm not paranoid anymore.

I believe in angels now.

Yes, belief is strong now.

Cleaning out your father's den and I'll stare you down.

It was two hundred.
Not one hundred.

Two hundred miles per hour I drove his brain into a coffin.

His poor mother so alone on that glass table.

Be I above.

Or below.

She remains beautiful.

Her lips on my chest.

But baby, sweet angel...

I'm listening.

Watching your lips move over and over.

It's not a knife I belong to.

You know as they do.

My dear, sweet little muse.

One hundred and twenty days of your torture.

I'm coming back.

It was good to know I wasn't coming back.

Stay my animal.

Believing now that we are born pure.

Or impure.

Whichever secures my mouth on your throat.

Darling.