The feeding-tube stuck in my head
I am convinced, zealously so, I will continue to be Madame Second-Rate 'Till death do us part. Ha, yet even dear Ol' St. Pete would not Allow the clutter of my Carrion on the premises Of Club Cloud Nine. I am not her, Nor her, Nor them. I am not the young bones You pined for, Nor The fresh meat you Preyed upon. I am not the one who got away. I am merely one of twenty-one. Or was it thirty-one? You say I seduced you. I did not want to. My intention was a little more Condensed than that. I cleansed those greasy finger-holes In my pretty red heart Just for you. Peaches and acid did the trick. It made your stomach hurt, As mine had hurt for an age, Along with where my sleeves fell. Perhaps I am no better than The high-class whore I punished Myself for being; walking, talking Suicide girl, Little pity queen. I recall you said you 'Loathed me very much'; I pondered whether that was beyond a calembour. I wondered if that was it: The sole thing you could, the only Thing you would dare Feel for me at all. Every sense of yours, I stole, (Oh, the wily, thieving whore.) The scarlet lioness strikes again. Time to shear my mane with a bread-knife, The only domestic action I can pull out Of the box. To say things bluntly I wanted you to love me. Is it terrible I yearned for the venery? I suppose I plucked my prize in the end. 'Through force, through force' In my head, she says. Oh mother, please This Ophelian disease, Tell me truly How it drives me To be as lovely as Hecate.
