Doesn't that feel good?
Like that first mirrorglance you almost couldn't take
poised breathless and the image was so solid and so
juicy
you nearly cried. Good thing you smiled instead,
ache as it did,
destruction the price of perfection.
Doesn't it feel good, love?
Knives are the playthings of yesteryear. No,
you're so far above,
you couldn't ground yourself if you tried.
Doesn't it just feel good,
this game of paring self from self
plumping lips and swaying hips?
You left her for dead, good riddance,
lying on a bed whitegowned
it was so easy to pluck her from you,
so stylish,
(hope the ache will stop sometime soon)
you didn't even need to check her pulse.
You've got a number in your phone,
a pair of gloves, dagger heels,
your hair is curled and tonight, oh tonight,
you're just about ready to eat someone.
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