She sits on a couch possessed by an idea, like her dreams are made of plastic, she’s an advertisement. I need to be consumed, and in order to be consumed I need to be consumable. There’s that thought again she thinks, sin in just the right way at just the right time. There are rules to this thing. I don’t want to be loved like my grandpa loved me, I need to be consumed.
But they’re so hungry, I can see the way they look at me. Little monsters trying to hide in glass cages, and it’s all breaking because I want to be consumed. I don’t care that they’re monsters, all of them. Because I’m their dream, I’m the thing that animates the nightmare, I’m the thing that pulls the strings when they repose into flesh. They’re my little meat puppets.
I need you to be tantalized, I want my skin to consume you in the way you’re consuming me. I want to grind you down into ‘please’. I’m the light an optometrist waves back and forth, I am hypnotic, a light that goes in but never leaves. I’m the blue light flesh you asked for. I want to see you beg, and cry, and sweat.
I’m the memetic abirritation of desire. I’m the omniscient parasitical idea that slides in the back of your brain that you like, I’m the worship you worship. Don’t you want me to be the smell of home? Don’t you want home to be fresh ground pulp, the solipsistic fantasies you’ve had locked up in boxes.
It’s not my fault my flesh is the fourth dimensional box that holds your tiny desires. I want to encapsulate you, to be a pill you swallow but can’t throw up. No I don’t want to be loved like my grandpa loved me, because I want to be consumed.