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fredlessHe's a monster.
He's not the villain in the story book or the crooked politician or the men with dark eyes that do even darker things to you in the most midnight blackness you have ever, ever known. No, he's a monster.
He's only a monster.
That shouldn't be comforting. If you were as smart at the walls of your stone house suggesting, whispering their wisdom at night? You'd be scared out of your wits -- the very last wits that you possessed. But you aren't, because he's only, just a monster.
There's rage and anger and strength and teeth. Because really, there's no missing the teeth. But there also isn't any plotting and hurting and ripping you apart from the inside out. He just wants to rip and rend and bite. It's just the body he's after, and if there's any sort of anguish in his eyes? Well, it's not your own.
Don't look to deep though, cause then you find your own anyway, all by yourself.
No. No he's just a monster.
And there's something almost seductive about that.
The blood's slick in your hands, ragged flesh catching up under your fingernails and tugging at places you try and forget. It's all sinew and muscle and it still connected to bits of you as you connect with him. It's your turn to seduce him, pulling him up off the stranger from the ground. Pulling him back to you and your stone walls. He isn't their monster, he's yours.
Yours and you don't want to share. It's not them you're saving, it is yourself. Not that they see that. You see though. You see your monster, simple and raw and real. You can identify him, categorize him and define him through and through. As confusing as this world is, as lonely as it is? As much as failure's your friend now, for every attempt gone wrong food that's not write and names that are lost?
You look at your monster, know what he is.
And it feels like he knows you back.
He's not the villain in the story book or the crooked politician or the men with dark eyes that do even darker things to you in the most midnight blackness you have ever, ever known. No, he's a monster.
He's only a monster.
That shouldn't be comforting. If you were as smart at the walls of your stone house suggesting, whispering their wisdom at night? You'd be scared out of your wits -- the very last wits that you possessed. But you aren't, because he's only, just a monster.
There's rage and anger and strength and teeth. Because really, there's no missing the teeth. But there also isn't any plotting and hurting and ripping you apart from the inside out. He just wants to rip and rend and bite. It's just the body he's after, and if there's any sort of anguish in his eyes? Well, it's not your own.
Don't look to deep though, cause then you find your own anyway, all by yourself.
No. No he's just a monster.
And there's something almost seductive about that.
The blood's slick in your hands, ragged flesh catching up under your fingernails and tugging at places you try and forget. It's all sinew and muscle and it still connected to bits of you as you connect with him. It's your turn to seduce him, pulling him up off the stranger from the ground. Pulling him back to you and your stone walls. He isn't their monster, he's yours.
Yours and you don't want to share. It's not them you're saving, it is yourself. Not that they see that. You see though. You see your monster, simple and raw and real. You can identify him, categorize him and define him through and through. As confusing as this world is, as lonely as it is? As much as failure's your friend now, for every attempt gone wrong food that's not write and names that are lost?
You look at your monster, know what he is.
And it feels like he knows you back.
