Take me, Satan, for I have sinned.
I fell down on the job, fell down on my sword
but with no real purpose or cause. A martyr
for the sake of martyrdom is as useful as a
parka in Mexico.

Slit my wrists with a freeform kiss.
Cracked teeth, cracked skull, saltine crackers.
Counting calories, skipping meals.  
Did it hurt to ascend from hell, and
how did you wash away
the grime?

I want to believe that you love me
but the world is unkind.
I need a shot of reassurance like a shot of
eighteen year old scotch, neat.

Rapid fire rejection, thunderstorms
of doubt. **** me with a smile. Rebuild
my psyche, brick by brick. Mortar me,
babe, and I'll adore you for it.

Melt into my mind and live there,
the mice who currently occupy
the quarters are hungry for
touch.

Ride my metaphor like
a throbbing **** longing for
release; please, release me.

I feel the pressure to create bearing down on my skull like a claw hammer. I am not a conquest. And no, I will not be your conquest (yes, you). I am me: flawed and imperfect but somehow still here. Fighting through the misery with Marlboros and earl grey. Bone broke, broken bones; a metaphor for broken imagery, a torn imagination soaked in ***** and blood. Would you still love me if I threw myself down a flight of stairs? Two for one pain, buy one dose, get one free. Ragged breathing, lace collars, four inch pumps and a plastered on lipstick smile.