can't you walk can't you breathe.

26 february 1999.

can't you trip like me.

--little mister limp dick is up to his old tricks & thought that he'd call me one last time. well, i'm just about done with the oh-woe-is-me shit & want everything back that's mine.--

you are going down. if i tell you, you have to promise not to get mad. there is rubbing alcohol all over her sheets. mmmmm. smells goooood. it's nail polish remover, but does that really matter. i'm living in my dreams. except my dreams are my reality. i dare you to fuck with me.

i dare you.

as for you, lmld, you're done. you're finished. it's over. i've seen the paper, i've signed my name & you're history. i want everything back that's mine. you are going down. when you open your mouth to scream, it will be all too real. if you can't run away from the wolf that's chasing you, it's not because you're impaired. it's because you're fucked.

things were better then. i'm getting ready to sail out on a big boat ride. look, we're going all the way. don't fuck around with me. a slight trim, a bit of a shave. my name is blue & you're not back without the black leaves as promised. it's going as we planned. this ends now. now. i swear we studied this in medival literature. tell me i'm crazy, tell me i'm nuts, but don't tell me that torture devices have not grown up. injection, lynching, fuck. string me up or tie me down. what's the difference? a little bit of string? some public displays of rejection?

throw up on that pillow. bleed on my fingers, drip down to stain the sidewalk. i'm carrying the wheel. they're hitting the backspace & rocking you back home, boy. 'bye, baby, goodbye.

do.
not.
fuck.
with.
me.

you remain.

turned away.