I think about dying more than I feel your eyes roaming over my body.
My mind is faraway and alone.
Yours is wondering what it will take to get me to wet your dick.
Irony, that you are more dead than I am inside.
You can careless if I even have a pulse as long as I’m warm and tight.
I want to rise up out of my skin and dissipate from existence.
Nothing makes me feel more hopeless, than the feeling of your hand clapping against my ass.
As casual as pulling out your wallet and making a purchase.
It feels so violent but it doesn’t resonate.
Because I’m imagining how beautiful my blood will look.
Later seeping back into the earth it came from.
After I free myself from this cage of existence.
I don’t make a sound as I disregard your existence.
You are just another repercussion of existence.
Just another man mimicking the pretence of what is perceived as manhood.
The endless cult of cloned sycophants and cowards
Just another mindless man.
Vulgar, unrefined and uncouth.
A passing touch from your withering hand is the closest you could get to my surreal being.
And that’s why you are so bitter.
Because I rather fantasize about my death than you.