You get off on licking your own skin, lapping up that which you sweat.
It’s who you think you are that you love more than anything else.
A trough for the masses who seek to get their fill until you stop smiling.
Misery lies in wait while you bask in the glow of idol worship.
Getting off on getting off until all that’s left is a lie and an empty bottle.
You better hope that that mirror is as good liar as you are to yourself.