I wonder vaguely if you realize that I am dead;

I represent the underbelly of your happiness;

I have no existance, other than inside your head.

I am your death, your end, who you were, is a dead fetus.

Everyone is merely a puppet;

To whom I am the grandest puppeteer;

Nothing about you, to me, is private.

I am a decomposer, to whom you adhere.

My hands will destroy you; scratches and scars;

I cannot handle anything, for it will break;

Run, run, run from this game of ours.

My accidental destruction of you has reached an outbrake.

As I have become, you cannot love a corpse;

My face is the one that will never be kissed;

Cold and stiff in your arms, something that is a corpse.

My love for you is only something that has erupted from a cyst.