Four out of Ten

Your lies are like the creeping fog
that blinds me, guides my injured
soul into the blender with a
thousand knives that grind me into
powder. Coal black. Gelatine. Can
serve me on a plate + watch me
shimmy, shimmy. Red. Cholesterol.
Intravenous. Feed me, feel my
nerves explode galactic in your
veins. You taste my essence -
does my hot exquisite pain excite
you? Does it? Hell you care... I'm
just another notch; another
conquest, another lock of hair
tossed in your casket. Come
tomorrow it's like I was never
really there...