Tonight I drink to you! On this dead-end flat I infiltrate the high-rise night. This crystal filled with cheap champagne is neglected and left to multiply rations I divided, we were classy just one night, you left me with no choice but to consume your share and mine in shame and I, oh, prepare this catatonic scene where I would wade through this sparkling disease. And I sing, oh, within this catatonic scene where I am wed to the concrete. I grip your ponytail to make you feel like I am passionate. Your lungs are incapacitated seizing you at will. This serenade declares, “I love you when you’re h____” we are bathing in a vat of treason, palpitating to the elegy. Oh, be still this catatonic scene we’ll barter l___ for the compost.

Impale yourself upon this bed of nails you little s___. Our undulations capsize vessels in a sea of s___ and lace. And when your manicure disfigures carnal sheets we’re tragedy. Your nape secretes chloroform. No…one more time. Is this estrogen-acide?

Staccato breaths consume you when we ignite the betrothed this crematorium will cauterize our shame.
This hypnogogic pretense will serve to lacerate you. We are the ushers of decadence. This timeline acts as more than a blinder. We are indentured
servants to madmen.

[And I watch as you undress
tragedy but in retrospect you’ll clothe in
your regret. So disgrace me with her
wine stained lips.]

This polyp’s latched on completely and distorts belief in Victorian love. This solipsistic existence is pretense. The moment that we’re born we’re indebted to contradict our genetics and walk the streets just to find sustenance.
This is shame at its best. Desperation intact, we dilute the vine just to quell our loss of enduring consent and un-marred countenance that we’d wake to find holds contented eyes. Have we digressed too far to give ourselves up?

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