i'll wipe your teenage smiles off your faces.
i'll show you places even God avoids.
the slums of my head.
brimstone flames lick the souls of my feet.
i'm writing fairytales where hansel and gretel were eaten alive by the witch in the dream cottage.
where cinderella never met her prince, and spent the rest of her life in rags and contaminated skin.
contagious.
fear and fame. flashes and flames.
smashing mirrors and breaking palm readers hands.
i make my own luck.
and then i sell it - half-price if you buy my soul.
not that you'd want it.
it's not much use to me.
it'll be even less use to you.
