Uncharted ground in typical fiction;
all your friends around me and I'm
uncomfortable
unfathomably
alone and lonely.

Covenants between strangers
and maybe a splash of blood
a splash of innocence a
tired man's inner demons,
maybe we're all tired of
pretending we don't want
to explode.

Explode and send fangs and horns
and pointed tails and fire
and tar and dead things all over.

Parties are just riots with their
heads up their *****.

We're all alone, you know?
Sometimes we just drown in it,
and it's when we think we can
**** down some type of atmosphere
that we remember how bad lust hurts.
Lust for life, and living, and *******,
and kissing, and affection.

She holds her face in her hands and cries.
Some of us are used for love.
She opens her arm up right in front of me,
and I can't cry.
"please stop."
I'm convinced we all want to die.
I'm convinced only a ******* idiot
wouldn't consider suicide.