MH (10/13/1990 / )

Ms. White, In The Library, With A Rope

Straight from the pit she sits alone caked up in a skimpy gown found by the shadows swallowing her every move.

Pucker your lips and reveal to me your deadly eyes from this disguise; you try so hard to be my desire.

With every climb, from behind, I take this vow to never look away even as you play my wits to its end.

One turns into four and there I pass to the floor with your claws impaling a trail of lifeless matter spilling on every mistake I've made.

Let's be one with the crowd and spill our guts to every hungry wolf just waiting to devour our flesh.

This isn't the mess I was expecting. This isn't the respect I deserve.

Tell me, where do you think you belong?

There's more like you who have mastered my strings, making every move for me; you were never special to me.

Spread your chest, you have no soul. From the dust you must taste, that's where you came from.

Burn out your lungs and never weep again.

There's no room for a whore's cry tonight.

I watch you sleep, as others watch me breath. Does it feel this good to be this famous?

Only minutes of your time to unwind the life I built up. You take it away like a filthy b*tch!

Go sink in my riches and f*ck my guns, I've heard you speak, but I've known your mouth to do more useful things.



Pleasure their fixtures and take off for pictures, and dance for me just this one last time.

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