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Men Who Make Mistakes

I feel sick, watching the bodies pile up, new names on toe tags, new
smiles on their faces, digging my own grave to the center of the
earth. That’s love though or the thought you think of it, doing all
you want to break yourself into their shapes, where’s my mold? I have
expectations of a dream, I’m tired of settling and counting these
bodies outside my house. Too much chloroform to mix, that stuff has
got quite a kick and I’m sinking in the ether every time I ask them
“smell this sin soaked rag”. Throw the old ones out and start again,
at a loss but not the end. I’ll continue hunting through human culture
for a creature acceptable to my taste. Rejection? No not me. I know it
feels that way, you see but the truth is we move too quick in this
underworld. Do you know who you’re dealing with? Dealer of death.
Playing a stealthy hand. Watch your back before its over, could be
months, maybe October, grinning pumpkins, will be the last thing that
you see. And when I take my subtle trophy, lock it up amongst the
rest, I’ll say “oh we could’ve been such friends”. Your choice my
dear! You made it oh so very clear, that my company was not your best.
No I’m not mad, just misunderstood, a little touched by men who think
they could, take a fragment of me without me taking something of them.
It’s silly really, I’m sure you get it, or at least you will soon don’t
forget that, I’m sure you won’t, when I’m standing over you. Adieu.

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About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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