Suffocation is a rough form of flattery,
only perversely sincere when you smother me.
Diagnosed comatose is my ghost in your hand
while asphyxiation goes according to plan.
Depraved I am, but so are you.
Choke me until my lips turn blue.
Masochism has an abominable flair,
malevolently tangling the chains we wear,
sawing through a skeleton of what used to be
covered in flesh, and tonight, the casket is free.
Idle I am, but so are you.
Motionless lungs obstruct my view.
Covered in dust are the shovels in your moonlight.
What used to glitter is filled with fluid and spite.
Irrationality rapes forgivable sins,
curing insomnia when destruction begins.
Silent I am, and so are you,
but homicide is nothing new.