Blutkitt

"Blood Cement"

Why are you looking away, baby? You know I'm talking to you...

Your self proclaimed saintliness is so pathetic it makes me ill.
If you really want to save the world, stop taking pictures of yourself while you "alleviate the suffering of the masses". Stop writing contrived poetry about the plight of the poor and how it makes your heart ache. They don't give a fuck if it gives you "sleepless nights". They don't need your sympathy, your artistic rendering of their wrinkled faces and tortured eyes or the venom you spew on the internet while sitting in your air conditioned room at the uncaring and self absorbed.
Get over your self man, there ain't no halo on that head of yours. If you were really so fucking happy "deep within", you wouldn't be so busy telling everyone else about it.

I'm not your mother,your shrink, or your lover. I'm not the virginal embodiment of your childhood love or the pin-up goddess of your feverish, blanketed fantasies. The thought of your touch leaves me cold. You may lie to yourself all you want, but your motives are transparent to everyone else. Scary thought, isn't it?


It wasn't love, baby. It's called masochism. An addiction to pain. Knowing you were never mine, knowing I'd never be yours. Yet thirsting, longing, almost - believing, self - deluding....



I've bled myself dry. There's nothing for you here anymore.