more of the same
nothing can reach perfection, stop saying it can be so. stop saying how nicely it is done. none of it deserves the praise, and we both know this. the words burn into the back of my mind, conscience guilty with the knowledge that i have made you lie.
tell me it's all terrible. tell me that we're fucked, tell me that i'm horrible. tell me that i am a sinner and bar the gates. tell me how you'll kill me, and what you'll do with my body. that is what i deserve. not this softness. i do not know what to do with hands that are not ready to strike.