Noveau Riche

I'm gonna bend my fingers backwards until they snap, so I can't touch anything I'm not supposed to. Next come my eyes, slit with a scalpel so they drain dry, so I can't see anything I'm not supposed to.

Maybe I'll cut my tongue out, so I won't say anything stupid. Crush my feet with a hammer, powder all the bones, so I can't go anywhere I'm not supposed to be. Twist my ribs inward, so every breath is pain that slashes my lungs, and makes them fill with blood, ah, lovely red sea drowning me, pulling me down to sleep.

But before that glorious metamorphosis can begin, I'll need a place to stay, a tomb to keep warm. Bricks, a lot of bricks, no windows, no doors. Keep me in the dark forever, a neat little abyss for me to languish in, get fat, get old, get pale, and stay alone. Or better yet, a mansion, all pearly white and spotless clean by the tired hands of lost children. There will be lots of gold painted baseboards and lots of paintings on the wall. A pool-house, and probably a pool too. Statues of tigers at the front door, like guardian angels. Then I can sit back and endure my hell, I accept my punishment, God.

Maybe I should build a house out of Styrofoam and toothpicks. Hell broken, saturated with knowledge, damp heavy with truth dripping. Knives and forks all in they're place, waiting for the feast to begin, then my belly will burst with sex and powder white roses will crown her glory as she falls asleep in my arms, no longer will she struggle against my will.

Run your fingers through my hair, child. Don't be afraid, the wolf still sleeps in his den. But the salamander is ready for war. Some of the aristocracy will blush now, and cover their faces with their hands, yet they peak out between their fingers, like voyeurs gazing through a thicket, profaning the sacred deed done in the moonlight.

Taken beyond the familiar boundaries of home, to a dusty place away from friends and water. Dying of thirst in my world of dreams, a little lost schoolgirl, a textbook under her arm, and a monster in her soul. Let's paint the sand technicolor, and drown the sun with our effluence. Our skin will be sunburned, and we'll peel it off with joy, and revel in our pink raw rebirth. That skin will be our housing, stretched over bones in the shade of dunes. I hollow you out, and drink my blood from your pretty little skull, secure in my new wealth. Welcome to the noveau riche, my dear little child.