If you lay on a single upturned nail, it would impale you and I'd cry over you, your poor bleeding body. I can't stand that. But I'll be your bed of nails and feel my pricks run shallowly into your skin, turning the red one white.
I read somewhere that a prince--of Prussia, perhaps?--once choked to death on a single human hair. And so I watch jealously over every meal I cook for you, safeguarding you. After all, I want you alive for when I wrap my locks around your neck and watch you plead for a breath.
I've lost friends to heroin. Oh, they're still alive, but only from needle to needle. I get so heartsick watching them flounder about, almost but not quite recovering. And yet I want nothing more than to be your drug, to make you so dizzy with me that you can't talk straight.
Hurt for me, darling. There's nothing that hurts that I can't do a thousand times over and make it better.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia