The prose below; well, it's almost definitely not about me...
There's no guilt in my mirror to see; it's some other monster...
A frigid monster that needs to find what makes you tick
When it touches and tantalises you and makes you slick
One a second rising and maybe more when you're excited
Maybe quicker still in a fevered climax that's unrequited
It's not about a memory of mine, there is no reflection...
I'm sure it's about somebody else, who cannot be sectioned...
A somebody, or something, that will coldly pare you apart
It will splice and dice you, until it finds your bleeding heart
For it will be there, in the dark of the night, at your behest
As it caresses you with fingernails ready for a razor's quest
It's not about me, for I'm sure I've not been alive forever...
It's about a malevolent creature, probably undead but clever...
In a procaine haze it will split your sternum when you've given up
And it will hold your icy heart and from an artery it will gladly sup
It will drain you dry and take your will, but it will be sure to suture
And without any reflection, you will be trapped in forever's future
The prose above; well, please tell me that it's not about me...
And it's about a monster I'm unable to see; some other monster...
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