1762.

Nothing will ever
belong to me as closely
as these cells in skin.

1761.

Press my bones down and
mold them into some form of
macabre puppetry.

1760.

Ply my flesh with a
hunger that ignores reason
and paints our secrets.

1759.

A lust that hunts her
desperation and wears it
down past some salvage.

1758.

Just because you don't
mar flesh doesn't mean that you're
not still a bully.

1757.

When they told you that
people were fragile, you saw
a chance to break them.

1756.

An appreciable
loss of worth for every
moment set between.