I am hell bent. I am hell bent. I am. I quit breathing last week some time. I am starving for your attention. I want to pretend my lust is not real. That you do not make me carnal. But I documented it once. Another memorialized it. Like a family photo on the mantle, it is hung with sentimentality for a suffered phrase choked out to the wrong audience. I am not your blissful tender. I am not tender at all. You cannot begin to understand why I do all of this. That is an unfair thing for me to claim. It is for sick amusement that we exist. Is it not true that we own our own realities? Own. That is a fickle word. They all are when we place them. In a sense we are owning the words. Back to the frame masking my desire. Slides flicker through in ample shades. Not masked. We cover nothing up. I cannot stress that enough. You are not a lie. I am not a lie.
Museum Mouth - I Stopped Caring
Museum Mouth - Habit
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