Chambers Of Suicidal Lust

They say, he, he dreams of fucking a gun

Writes like him and death violently eat lunch, chewing while teeth fall out

Surely, he’s trying to influence screams, suicidal darkness dreams, glamorizing

As if it’s pretty _ hating one’s self always shitty _ never good enough

Tell him it’s not cool _ he is without potent clues_suicide isn’t fun_as if I he didn’t price shop for a final gun.

Mad, because he writes like it’s paradise

Scars on his arm as if it’s nice spiralling down darker whispers among dimming lights

Logically aware of errors, a damned heart still does damage

Writing out the imaginary self-inflicted gunshots, say he thinks it funny

Feeling rejected from everything until he learns Independence, builds up resistance

We can only truly save ourselves.

He wants you to eat popcorn while blood flows through your ears, A joke to him

His favorite movie, pessimistic lines again, breaking down resistance

Game to him, watching you cry behind sad scenes

As if it’s pretty _ hating one’s self always shitty _ never good enough.

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