I've made a caricature of myself, I've pummeled myself into a bloody pile of guts. a massacre at the carnival, I'm the main attraction - won't you caress me?
(no you wouldn't. you'll leave my carcass to rot just like our love.)
come judgement day, I will beg at God's feet for restitution, never quite looking into the eyes of the 'Creator' for fear of being sent back to the Inferno where I so belong. I know the mercilessness of a God would find my exile to be pleasurable. I hold no trust for them. it's the intuition from being a fallen angel, they say. I'll fondle the sanctity of Paradise with my hellish hands and suffer no retribution for my sins (I've already lost it all)
and soon I'll have the tart blood of my enemies running down my chin once I've overthrown Him, claimed my throne, and rule as a God.
