A tool they use to dissect your soul, piercing inflection, the bell they toll. Oh those words they cut like a knife, through veins, arteries and my being. Your whiskers are out, waiting to detect every grain of my pain. You let my desperate quips, contrived gasps of air, fade into the macabre – you don’t bother with the easy meat; it is only the excruciating pain your sensors seek. A cobra with a hair-trigger. You can’t erase the marks you scraped, the breaths you take or the time you waste.
Dickste.in