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I can see the blades you've placed. The ones you dance upon. (On which you squirm.) Forcing movements that beg us to believe that the pain is foreign.

You don't know what it is to be gutted. A black knife, searing and hungry.
What I wouldn’t give to find its home in you (twist.)
To find your fear and pray it dissolves you.

Soft hands and a soft mind.
A self-loathing, self-righteous excuse. Your suffering’s endless.
I watch you carve your skin. Milked ribbons they coil and wilt.
A bloated gut oozing your sorrow so slow and tender.
Weakling. May your sorrow bring fruition.
I hope that you find the pain you believe this world has built for you.

Your feeble shell crushed beneath a steady and rigid boot.
A whimper. A whispered weakness. A miserable fetal heart
That only knows the warmth of a guiding hand.
Insect. Craven. Deceiver.
Never to know the flavor of accountability.

Your tongue’s made sweet with pity and pleas.

You grow richer with every limp-necked sorrow.
You miserable fucking coward.
Victim.
And you deserve the worst that this hard and indifferent world has to offer.

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