Raz
Bluelighter
I hope I find somebody to hit tonight.
I remember your face when I left work, the fear and the way you stepped out of my way and the dawning that I'm not just the quiet one; that it's the quiet ones you gotta look out for.
I was looking you over as blood stormed through my veins and carried me through the city; fingers clenched into angry fists, eyes narrowed into angry slits. An angry man then, making his way to an appointment he's late for.
I searched for you on the train, looked for the one with that winning combination of weakness and stamina; somebody to bruise, somebody to cut, somebody to throttle and choke and bleed. Somebody to exhaust me for a while.
The fantasy of hurting you is like a protracted orgasm. The reality is a quick wank. It's the song I can't get out of my head, the one that buzzes and infiltrates until it's stuck there but good. It's the song I hate. It's the song I hate.
I remember your face when I left work, the fear and the way you stepped out of my way and the dawning that I'm not just the quiet one; that it's the quiet ones you gotta look out for.
I was looking you over as blood stormed through my veins and carried me through the city; fingers clenched into angry fists, eyes narrowed into angry slits. An angry man then, making his way to an appointment he's late for.
I searched for you on the train, looked for the one with that winning combination of weakness and stamina; somebody to bruise, somebody to cut, somebody to throttle and choke and bleed. Somebody to exhaust me for a while.
The fantasy of hurting you is like a protracted orgasm. The reality is a quick wank. It's the song I can't get out of my head, the one that buzzes and infiltrates until it's stuck there but good. It's the song I hate. It's the song I hate.
