Note:This doesn't make sense.


My mind spins the webs of violence, and my hands carry out the dreams. A thousand life times floating through my head, a thousand innocents taken from this realm and thrown toward the next. My hands. My hands. Smart, all knowing as they seek purchase on your silk white neck. To hold, and to feel the slow trickle of your breath smoothly slide up and down your throat. Yes, I shudder and fall to my knees in ecstasy. When I feel the life ebb away from your sinning bones my lips part.

My knees get weak, shudder, and give way beneath me. I tumble toward the earth, crying as orgasm racks my body. Lost in my death and rebirth. My lover, my dark earth.

I come to you, for you, with you. You laugh, sitting there among your friends. Drinking tea with the gods, eating pink sugar packets. You mock me as I travel your cracked, parched skin. It gives way beneath my fingernails, and my hands seek purchase in your eyes; only to fall towards the emptiness they call your mind. It's cracked the breaking; I love the way you taste.

Those butterflies that swim in my head crushed between skull and skin. That is you. I scream at you, to stop my loneliness. To stop this cold that freezes the edges of my skin. I call to your friends,

I call to you. "Christ, help me," I scream at you. "I'm eating myself and swallowing my own seed.

And it's so cold butterfly, it's so cold and I need those blankets. I need those blankets to keep me warm. To keep the cold at bay, I'll need your blankets. To stop these feelings I prey upon the weak. I prey upon the fleshy creatures within your skin. For my hands know what to do, my hands are warm. They know how to delve inside the bodies of the flesh ones. They know how to travel inside the veins and keep warm. Hours pass; and I cry for you. Days pass; my tears turn to ice. Weeks drift by me; my hands are dirt, my skin is snow.