Gary D. Morton

It whispers, burn the fucking house down,

They don’t really love you;
No one  ever will. You are entirely insufferable.
Burn the fucking house down, you can make it look like an accident,
They will never know.
He returns from plummeting depths,
A deranged acolyte, skull filled with dead leaves and purgatory,
Love is piercing agony, thoughts of being alone, but
pleading to snip off their toes with wire cutters,
Simultaneously begging for release, redemption and symbiosis,

Just burn the fucking house down

you are already
trapped
inside.

 

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