Snarling, biting, slippery wet breathing, fingers deep inside, a little flavor, relaxing tidal waves, pleasure, and pain. Inverted crosses, walls bleeding, demons mating, fangs and growls, the tortured cries, an audience, and a circus in Hell. Love you, love me, bliss, harmony, angelic lullabies, faces melting, skin and burning flesh, a burden we both must bear.
Pain doesn't mean anything; only our quiet moments matter. Lies, cheating cheetahs, stealing melody, an onyx rock in an orchard, remaining bones, and sun-kissed treasure buried—show me that you love me, hand in hand, murderer, murderers, a murderess, two figs in a fig tree, fighting, fucking, falling and falling, and changing; undeniably sweet, sweeter than sweet tea, and stimulated and numbing; and this is how we know that we are alive, your skin, my skin, touching, loving, and killing. It doesn't mean anything to you, and it doesn't mean anything to me.