Morality

Bitter acid stench
Gnaw away in silent fury
Your touch, my dear, every time.
Opens the wound
With brilliantly innocuous words.
Rips the stitches out
And lets the dark, arterial emotions burst forth.
Tempest of desperate rage, intensity.
And damnable need. Damnable, damnable need.
Do you think I want you? Do you think I need you?
Do you think I want to need you, your sadistic, egotistic, superior countenance?
Wouldn't I love to rake claws down that smooth, smooth ivory face, jerk back that long black hair, make you cry out in pain, in need, in disgust of your own pathetic cries?
Wouldn't I love it.
Just to get some reaction out of you. To know I matter to you. That you need me.
That you want me.
That I'm not some plaything to amuse you on the side.
You are my plaything.
I control you.
Bide my time, let the rage simmer and boil, slow black tendrils stretching into my deep, dark little id.
You are mine, little being with little dreams. You are mine.




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