Dirt from under the tire swing caked into my fingernails;
so raw, they’re beginning to hurt like hell,
layers crusted upon layers until they’re busted.
You can smell the smell and I can tell
you’re disgusted.

You shoot me down
with that knowing tone,
as if you’re too good,
as if I’m just ****
with ***** fingernails,
with that *** that shakes in your stride
as you walk away from me,
as you shoot me down.

I’ll shoot you down.

You leave me trembling
in my wake,
in my sleep,
as I shake,
as I weep.

Soon you will tremble,
and I will win,
and after you’ve realized
why we’re perfect,
you will also win.
.
We will tremble.
We will win.
We will love.

Perfume savored,
I return to my sanctuary,
my four walls;
walls stripped of character,
walls strangling my mind,
a mind running out of time,

and the cellar door
leading to my dirt floor,
where I can collapse
on my knees
and scream pretty please,
and pound my fists
into my skull
until I bleed
enough sin to succeed
in my goal of filling
a paradoxical hole
eating my stomach
to shriveled bits.

Crimson tears forming puddles
to drown my fears of failure,
I continue to formulate your ideal man,
so you will be my ideal girl,
and together we shall rule the world.

I pry at magazines with cutout eyes,
I dine with your hologram,
but it’s never the same.
I need the real thing,
I need you here,
underneath me,
on my dirt floor,
where you are mine,
evermore.

When I am through,
flowers will grow differently,
and the moon’s glow
will never glow quite right again.

Music will sound completely new,
histories forever tainted,
our love will stay true.

When I am finished,
nothing will ever be the same.
They will say nasty little things
that you’ll never hear.

They will say I’m crazy,
and they’re right:

I am.

I am insane, but at least I know
I am the rain and I am the snow,
I am the cloud destined to guard you
until the sky falls down.

I am the hand that comforts,
the lips sewn into your own,
the bleeding heart dying
beside your bleeding heart.

I am the creator,
and you are my prize.

Claim thee I shall.

My fingers bury themselves
in my cellar floor,
as I try to grasp
how to make you happy,
how to please you,
how to complete you,
how to have you,
got to have you,
need to have you.

Must have you.

Fingers so *****, it’s sickening.
Maybe one day I’ll cut them.
Maybe one day, a lot of things will happen.
When I’m finished with my project,
maybe that day will come.
When I’m done building your present,
maybe you will have me.

When I’ve built your man,
maybe I’ll build you.

With a toolkit like mine,
there are no exceptions.
I can reject your rejections,
and accept my paradise.

Madman’s fingernails
claiming handfuls of hair,
so stressed, so pressed,
trembling on my workbench,
striving to at last add
the finishing touches
on our present,

the one I’ve built
just for you;

my magnum opus.

I hope you like it.