you spill your blood
from biting your whole tongue,
because all that laughter
is misery after
your face got caught up
in all of your lies.
with you, everything’s fake
and it dies.
your nails dig deep
and within your skin
are graves and corpses.
there die a thousand noises,
your dreams, your hopes
and all of your poises.

disintegration is your preferred state,
personalities – you have like eight,
your mind is dull, your heart is plate,
no wonder you’re not worth the wait.

the situation may seem kind of hairy,
if it weren’t for the dairy
you seem to be ingesting very,
as well as fruits, and souls, and bodies, Harry.

Pic.