(no subject)
I have no intentions of winning you over,
I’m a bad bad girl.
I have no intentions of being good FOR anyone, or being good TO anyone, or being good period. I’m a bad bad person...
There are habits that will bite your skin and cause your veins to run with itch, and pour out sin and rotten. There are ailments that don’t fix themselves. They’ll claim hold of your infections, twisting them to their own vices, and slapping them upside first, and downside second to none.
These are not patient functions. They won’t wait for you. They infest, and procreate, and exist in their own rights; as malfunction, and bitter slaughter takes hold. You will rip at your veins to get them out. You will tear at the ceiling of your mouth. You will fuck to get away from the itch; that scratch inside your skin that causes your nose to bleed when your laying on your back in a dirty hotel room. You fight to get away from your senses. You lust after all that is real, and most everything that would kill to be.
These are the habits. These are the addictions and their hosts. They are cruel, and unadvised, and rampant with disease and unsanitary sentiments. Pray against them, they’ll only make you wet and kissed with vacancy.
I’m a bad bad girl.
I have no intentions of being good FOR anyone, or being good TO anyone, or being good period. I’m a bad bad person...
There are habits that will bite your skin and cause your veins to run with itch, and pour out sin and rotten. There are ailments that don’t fix themselves. They’ll claim hold of your infections, twisting them to their own vices, and slapping them upside first, and downside second to none.
These are not patient functions. They won’t wait for you. They infest, and procreate, and exist in their own rights; as malfunction, and bitter slaughter takes hold. You will rip at your veins to get them out. You will tear at the ceiling of your mouth. You will fuck to get away from the itch; that scratch inside your skin that causes your nose to bleed when your laying on your back in a dirty hotel room. You fight to get away from your senses. You lust after all that is real, and most everything that would kill to be.
These are the habits. These are the addictions and their hosts. They are cruel, and unadvised, and rampant with disease and unsanitary sentiments. Pray against them, they’ll only make you wet and kissed with vacancy.