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 | . ./b\.roken ./there I sit\. ./my splintered heart displayed on the floor \. ./so I guess I’m a heartless bitch ./but I will be put through this no more\. ./a shard of glass\. ./tipped to a point\. ./rip through your skin\. ./revenge is only about to begin\. ./make you feel\. ./what I used to dread\. ./now I don’t feel, as if I’m dead\. ./a cut so clean\. ./the crimson weeps\. ./I begin your sleep\. ./that ends 6 feet deep…\. ©Meaghan McMahon | |||
./ iniquit posture detonates slight. Diagnostic pergola, cranial apparatus decends. orifice ingests verdure, apical tips decimate parchment, biosphere loiters 'bout carcass o' herbivore. pinions cease rendition, nasal cavities quiver, emulsion offered plight of insects. vertebral column skids juniper pugnacious zephyrs. Orifices segregate. Blockading upon epidermis of stag\. ./oh dahl. Tsk tsk tsk. You shoulda known better. You wanna flirt with me…you flirt with death. Attempting to cross the line then return. See. I like my toys. I play with my toys. But usually what happens is I play with them a little…um… rough. so they break and I find new ones…blah blah blah…yeah you know the deal. But it seems to me that you don’t play with your toys. You keep them on a shelf to collect dust then occasionally glimpse at ‘em. So toots…tell me? Do I really want to become one of your collectables? | ||||