Succumb

The Certainty of Lady Death.

Life is drifting down a tunnel of love with death sitting beside you smiling and smelling of woman- and you’re well aware, but you have only the freedom to pretend, that maybe, in the end, everything is going to be alright.  Certainly. Ha.  I laugh because that’s all I can do and she understands, she tugs on the corners of her infected lips and smiles like a w***e who orgasms sincerely.  She can’t imagine what it feels like, to become gradually worn and festered and worthless until your shadow weighs more than your skin and your memory runs with color, but she doesn’t need to slip on my clay boots anyway and play altruist.  My submission to ruin is her heroin, the un-tethered kind, where no one is an addict and the needle builds pretty basements in her skin instead of wormed holes.  Besides it's a matter of self-purification, preservation, and deification, death knows she's got me by the balls, so why make room for sympathy?  I want none anyway.  Let her come with her honey comb lips and newspaper-colored skin and skittle walk, her toes fashionably pearl like a lady in a nightmare, to tear me down layer by layer, thought by thought, being by being, until there is nothing left in me but- succumb.