The things we do inside don't matter,
A sick twisting of the mind.

Cut off the circulation at strategic points
Devour the self
And dream your pleasure.

This is not an admission of sin
This is an innocent protest
There are some things I would never do
And that's how I got you.

This is not heaven
It's my refusal to go to hell
I scoop my brains back into my head
And get on with living.

It feels good.

Veins ******* veins,
You know it doesn't matter
We end up with a face
We end up in a shape.

I want to have *** with you
I don't wanna get married
And you can't have a baby that wasn't already there.

But what if this is wholesome,
And I was just in my darkness?

I can feel my organs bulging in space
Boasting and cowering
Squelching and squirming

I am a sick man

I hold together my viscera with an idiotic pride
No one likes me, not really
Not even myself

I am something wrong with the world
The only thing that's right
When you claim it's yours
And try to rob me of the light

And heaven knows you will
But they never asked to lie
Those poor conquerors of hell
That doomed wretch of a spy