Stop Talking

You have a lot of theories and philosophies when it comes to life, love and sex. And you like to tell them to me like you know what the fuck you are talking about. Like you have some sort of authority. Well, I have a philosophy too. Everybody dies. And if you don't shut your fucking mouth, I'm gonna make sure your death shows up a lot sooner than you thought it would.

Feed Me

I have a dream so thick I want to slip it down your throat like jam. All hot and buttered. I burn like rum right to the back of your throat. Right to the back of your mind. Burning fingertips in your head plucking out the tasty bits and licking the inside of your skull. My dessert man. Only the hated and the devoured come here for dinner.

You are in the kitchen making me soup. I'm hungry in so many ways. I am insatiable they say. Cannibal for everything. Chewing on the leaves in the garden. Chasing fat chickens. I nibble your ear. Hungry. Slip my fingers down below your waist. I am so hungry. I swallow you whole.

"Let's go to lunch," you say, "We can have tea and cookies and maybe a little arsenic." Sounds dreamy. Feels tasty. Little acid punches to my cheeks. Little dreamy swirls in the whipped cream. Mountains of marshmallows and valleys of candy. I'm so sticky. My voice is rich with chocolate metaphors. So yummy in your tummy.

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Just slip the blade in straight and then twist upwards for a sure kill.