Left to clot, my still-blood that tight spot, inside rot, painted words, all filled with lies. Cold Breath of death, dressed up in bags. Watered down. Wandered alone. Tied to skulls with regret, benign matter. Died, the soul, day we met, plastic shattered. Wants to feast on every soul, be her own death every day. Screams for mercy and control, breath wreaks of sex and decay. Feasts on still blood, lips dusty and grey. Shes our little secret, decomposing every day. Blast at night, carnal rights, danced till high, opened thighs, Funeral light, pale dead eyes. Laid out open for business. She has tricks, god as her witness. Imagine the possibilities, Lifeless and willing to please. Left to clot, my still-blood. That tight spot, inside rot. Blinded eyes. Goose bumps, well never get you, but bent over the toilet, shell let you writhe. Cum into deaths eyes, we serve screams, still blood, and flies.
