This is me.
Metaphorically.
I am a porcelain beauty, perfumed roses intertwined with glass-like strands of platinum hair, my lips stained gory (violet? ;)), still sticky from my last meal. I wrap myself in nails, flowing strands of anguish, my bronze body armor.
don’t touch.
It’s still not enough. Cover me with glass, slap me in a gilded frame, cloister me away to a cold sterile gallery, hang me upon the wall, sit back, and
I am an artist. I live for the joy of vomiting concept after concept, the sweet suffering of caustic images and ideas scouring my esophagus as they pass, while their acrid smells assault my olfactory senses. In my opinion, mankind’s capacity to create beauty is its only saving grace. The world is very lucky I am too selfish to devote my time to destroying it. I’d rather spend it painting flesh-eating unicorns frolicking among oceans of twilight clouds
Black bile is in excess.
If you cut me open you’ll find that it’s
It’s void
It’s darkness
It’s clawing, nagging, biting, insatiable hunger.
You just might be the tickling-pink sanguine little piglet to sate me. *sigh* probably not, I could eat a thousand of your kind and still starve.
please become me
I want to eat myself
