Frankenstein's monster will carve the flesh away from crooked and cracked spine.

He will lay it before him, dine on my corrupt core and chew it and taste it
to his liking.

He will lay it before him until I am ground down like cow in malevolent misery mouth.

I will caress the monster's earlobe like a lover loves to touch tentatively.

I will whisper winsome my gratitude in to his deepening, voracious appetite.

Appetite.

I am appealing; I appeal sometimes.

Monsters don't stop.

He is kind, waving his flag of caustic cautionary tails and tales.

He will enable me still I will violate his violently vile mouth.

I will scream skunk scented bile into his diseased eyes.

I will despise his acid belly.

He will laugh.

He will caterwaul, he will sing his celebrity over my aching guts
that are splayed so ******, flinching and twitching for his feast.

In the least, I will show a tired effort of the finished, final scream.

Kindred severance washed down with the finest of red wine
built over breaking bridges that collapse under this foreknowledge;
the monster mocks and flocks like a fleet of wild birds, inside the
married meat of my stride away.

I won't laugh.
I won't smile.
I won't remember.
I won't want.

I will sail like a baby girl delivered into the peaceable tastes of a beginning innocence.

I won't want to remember.

I will want to view an eye that can't see me.
I will want to smell a mouth that hates me.
I will want to taste a hand that closes angrily around my throat.

I will want to hear.
I will want to hear.

I will want to hear you tell me you love me.
I will want hear inside an ear that listens to me.

I will want to devour a bit of interrogating mayhem before it devours me.

I will survive the monster's prowling, hmph...in his putrid spruce pants
he wears to capsize my tries.

Picasso pictures busy themselves around my waist like your arms wind
up love around that girl's.

Shh.

I will hush my turbulent sorrow.
I will hush my endearing memories of the tingling hands
that stand high above my last love.

Reason's charity could've fought my battle but the monster proved
his dedicated engagement
his engaging affliction; he proved his pressuring ability.

I'd like to dance endlessly.
I'd like to movie inside your misery and dissolve, destroy!

Your disastrous danger.

I need a melody survivable, tender through trials of truth.

I knew there would be new.

I've not ever been seclusive, exclusive to you.
I am intrusively presumptuous.

Accept my apologies, I repeat and I repeat, accept my apologies as I've accepted
anxieties

I never expected an embrace.

I don't expect an embrace.

Like that majestic man sips singular sanctuary of that
fantastic, general, genial girl I gulp blue bottles of sky.

I would prefer you drink of me.

Battered, I believe you but choose
you choose
but you choose
the bruise.

There may never be any new for me of you.
There may only ever be you.

Sip me, as I am your Kiss Elixir, feathering against your sable brushes
seeping today, tomorrow and yesteryear.

The tip of my pink tongue tastes your timid tenderness
and your dreaming and driving distinctions quenches
my desires of today, tomorrow and yesteryear.

I am your Kiss Elixir.

Arctic anger wraps inside simple solitude though I've not tasted our separation.

I've sung through every scathing scream you've ever bellowed.

Won't you have me instead?

I am ended.

The monster's claim is one more; another disparate love.

Stem, that stretch of branch over rocky, fragile ground,
****, those plastic, lemon circles you got for eyes
Lick, that smile, that smirking smile you shot at me,
Wet, that water on your baby fat cheeks
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
A knife in my hair, my working birth branched over rocky, fragile ground,
Your sorrowed songs sieved, your happiness a chalk outline on tulipwood tables,
A knife in my teeth, I sing these dreams of me, you see
Mirrored, that miserly misfortune you got for a heart
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
Cap, that satin wrapped cloud, circling wrangled, strangled cows and crows
Stab, that forlorn fire, ever end that showing, shallow show
****, that plastic lemon smile you shot at me
Lick, that water on your fat baby cheeks
I can’t sing for you
I can’t sing for you
This is my working birth, mirrored and miserly misfortune branched over rocky, fragile ground.
This is my working birth, mirrored.