I lie in my delusion of forgotten insanity, wreaking current havoc on my disgusting livelihood. I lie with a sense of hidden lust and hidden guilt, somehow stored away deeper than any particle of thought passing through my heart with a needle and spear.
My blood flows with discernment of microscopic shards, riddled with glass and salted diamond.
Where is my blood? Where is my soul stored?
I've lost my intentions with an excruciating extent. My vile, vile Intentions.
Is it a lie if the truth is indiscernable? Is it a lie if it's what I want to believe is true?
I shed my warmth onto terrors, reclaiming my soulless, ice-cold blood. My eyes burn when I stare at the mirror. They are relieved when I am beheaded.
Death grants me no favours, therefore emitting beauty beyond any that I could be.
Close my casket; I care not for the wonders of death. Close the physical image you have stored in your wonderful memory. Replace it with mighty stones imagined by your own visions.
I lie in my closed casket, drowning in my frozen blood. Drowning in my disgusting guilt.
Drowning in my Bad dreams.