do not pick at my irises

nothing burns like a bitch's fangs playing father in the skinned backseat we're all watched-out, enough now. i'm looking miserable i will be daft at your display of mediocrity, even as it strings. it hides in me white and sour like milk, carves me of meat meanwhile you drink and devour i've not been touched i'venotbeentouchedi'mpuretakeme then gawk like i am your point, lick lips at a reason for being, like cemented breath chokes me up like a throat - coughs out apparition - apparently words weren't real; i was not your music, not the violin you play with broken strings you misheard, dear you are nice but not necessary, coveted by cruelty and i’m covered in unkindness i beg it first that you taste me and seek out sorrow’s dreams for you before you seek mine and it bores you that it all might not be meant for you, what is mine owed might not be yours of course of course of course it is, follow the course of my coiling-in cunt i'm careful not to come to the kitchen for a kiss still you know i am good for it; you keep me stood-up and well-spoken repeat it like your own words breaking out in hysterics as you call ME a fool. you are a follower, an ignorant intellectual who casts a doubt over morality for money, i’m out of reach but you are out of touch and we do not follow the same currency your culture is corruption, mine is up and coming coming; to this conclusion that a continuation of discredit will lead us closer to your cowardice ideology tell us now, one thing of your own that has not been conceptually created for clout, to classify yourself as a tortured celebrity but you tear upon telling spill your lies, Luke-warmed livid; tell it upon the mouth of another, let’s play matchmaker, light a fire with truth so i can watch you burn have you ever once considered yourself wicked for curating confession