Sid Cutie Pants

its three eighteen, mouth tastes like the corpse of every pregnant teen. the minutes are hours the hours are days. i feel infected by your presence, you speak in tounges. i smell the lies dancing on your blackened lungs.i whispered in her ear: 'fear me dear, for i am death. ill take your hope. your dreams. your love. till there's nothing left.'"ill steal the diamonds from your eyes. ill turn your promises. into lies."i hear fear in your voice, but you shouldn't feel a thing. your life's already worse than any pain that i could bring.i could make it december every day. but your so blind, it may as well be may.i whispered in her ear: fear me dear, for this is death. I 'am death. BITCH