I've never felt such cold finger tips before.

Thu, 16 Sep 2004 03:35:18 GMT

A slow motion melodrama. A significant sign of seduction. Sickning sweet, as the feelings pour out of heart. Why are your hands so cold? This touch feels all too unfamiliar. This repression hit me all too fast. I am so nauseated, and my stomach is not flattered. So pale, not even a skin cooking coffin could colour me in. Wake up. You can't leave me like this. I never even had a chance to tell you how I felt. This can't be fucking happening. WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU THE MOST?

Nothing's alright when your one floor away from the morgue.

Wed, 15 Sep 2004 23:29:52 GMT

Her makeup drips like morphine. Slow and anticipated. These hospitial lights are dimmed down for the night. Eyelids flicker, nightmares take over. Sirens, and the morgue downstairs. You don't belong in recovery darling, you belong in the assylum. All four limbs strapped down to the floor. Cold steel between your thighs. Isn't this a dream come true?

A romance novel gone horribley wrong, and here you are on stage. Lights, Camera, Action. The scalpel carves the title star in your cheek bones. The audience is salivating like rabid dogs. Hungry for skin. You lost all of your standards in that hospitial bed. Now everybody, she deserves a round of applause. Overdose. Recover. Repeat.

plasticsurgeon

I've never felt such cold finger tips before.

Nothing's alright when your one floor away from the morgue.