he picked apart the movements of girls' hips like he forgot what his momma looked like like he never knew how to believe a female tongue he never thinks too hard about the sentences she can make only what she'd look like if he forced himself inside of her
he ate his words like a picky child who only ate cigarettes and ****** he bathed in the brute fury of how they never payed much attention to him until they were screaming stop and he was going anyways he hated them for being beautiful he hated beautiful things in general
but he liked the feeling of cornering his prey in a dark stairwell he liked playing the devil and walking to meet sin with a backwards heart a heedless skull a set of fingernails that always chipped as he picked away at them with his teeth
he liked to think he could have anything his way if he made it so he liked to know that if he made himself the faceless shadow in a dark corridor he could become the boogyman he could wrap around bodies like silicon and swallow them like tremors cracking the earth
every girl he'd ever hated for her body would have nightmares about him and he liked them better as dead bodies because it's the only time they'll shut up and **** him he boasts tire tracks running along main bloodlines a broken brain like a land mine a chance of luck that he could **** some time following the scent of something feminine the idea that his presence alone could shake her down to her knees
he wants to take every thing that has never been given to him he takes joy in the distorted the sick satisfaction of tasting the caviar that no one ever served him the princess, trapped, in a black dress pinned down in the dust behind the restaurant dumpster after dusk what an interesting view from above he thought as he perforated the flesh and though he never cared for the victim's clothing choice he liked her best in red
he was not a mommy's boy and it showed he took care to take in a way that he knew left limbs hollow in it's wake slit wounds in a human that were harsh in places where white legs flashed beacons a wraithlike shape that closes in on women wreathed in dark streets and poetry that hasn't been written yet
she had a sonnet to spout and a poison of malignant parasites she couldn't shake out that latched onto her veins as she arranges them over her arms and lower around her knees and he never showed much promise and he's angry that he has never been able to please the world so he waits for her and he takes from her
and now he traipses out with the blood and leaves her to lie there kissing an ink spill from her pen to the tar have a billion conversations with the pavement until the wounds dry up she'll stumble into the arms of gravity and leave her dead body behind live with the infestation of his invasion fused into her spine
making her squirm and shiver years after she wormed herself out of your grip she will always feel sick of all the ways you almost got away with it even when you've also died and gone she knows you've never been a mama's boy and you'll never be a ladies' man you'll only ever be the amens she made after praying you would die at point blank range