> Comir: Belt into your mirror.
Pyre of lore, of granule and gore, of scrumptious mortal flesh that sears down and down into my very core.
Of pricks that tick and tock their varied lives away until all that’s left is liquid and bone.
Lest I detest the lustful scent of sweet berry off the kiln, the dry musk of skin that boils within me that makes me feel so naughty.
I dine, refined, yet beast-like in my escapades of murder so dainty… yet so vain.
I wish, oh wish, I wasn’t this mad that I had had somebody to well my anger into a pool of calm, oh god.
I feel the pang that ticks and tocks away at my hunger, chipping away like tooth decay only my pan is the tooth and the cavities are the rust.
The redness of the flaky signs that I am not what I am anymore and it makes me feel to very unclean.