Her.
reeking of cheap perfume and daddy issues
polyester black cloth elegant, purposeful in its placing
“everything is free if you run fast enough”

something was going to **** her anyway
why not let it be something of her own design?

taking a drag of her pernicious cigarette
forcing careful and cultivated opinions
if only to silence the sadist inside

she had already walked in loneliness
full of satin bows and amusement
so it might as have happened now
because everyone always loves you better when you’re dead

The cries of broken hearts
and melancholia,
pleasantly melodious to my ears.
I collect bottles of pathetically wasted tears
and use them as ink for my typewriter.
Hopping from window to window,
I come in the form of guilt,
and a tinge of wringing regret.
I will bring you to the highest level
of self condemnation
and keep you miserably awake,
gifted with the soul of an insomniac.
I’d even leave wisps of bittersweet memories
if I was feeling a little sympathetic
or particularly magnanimous.
Certainly, I cannot always be lenient,
after all,
being a sadist is part of the job description.

you're hurt
but it makes me so happy..
i hate this side of me.

It is not greed,
The thirst for riches.
It is not lust,
The hunger for skin.
It is not wrath,
The delight in spilled blood.
It is not sloth, jealousy, gluttony, or pride.
It is simply evil,
Devoid of complexity,
Absent and empty.
It is all-encompassing, surrounding you, surrounding me,
In a cloud of poison, toxicity.