Who tries on my shackles
And dresses up in faded denim
And watches my every move?
Expecting a couple of glossy eyes.
Expecting something dirty,
Dark, twisted, worthy to keep.
Who expects my younger self
To reappear with my notebook
And write down all the names
Of those I'd like to fuck and kill.
My fingers open many things.
My heart pumps a lot of blood.
There's not much left to it,
Though I know you're getting restless.
No comments:
Post a Comment