He loves me. He says so. He wants a future with me. He says so.
I'm hoping that all my indignities won't find themselves piled at his door,
scheming and whispering through the crack at the bottom.
He weaves such pretty words for me, binding me in gratitude and injecting longing
into my eyeballs so late at night I can scarcely breathe
and all the while my heart is pushing blood through all these nameless veins of mine.
I'm hoping he doesn't find the idea to crack me open and survey me with an academic grin,
I'm hoping he doesn't imagine me to be a savior or an honest man,
I'm hoping he doesn't expect me to drown in darkness,
and all the while my heart is pushing blood through all these nameless veins of mine.
picture this, if you will:
- Ms. Annie Creamcheese
- so many years ago...
- I was born in 1874 in Paris to a pair of sea turtles who were violently in love, though their passions were kept secret as they were locked in loveless marriages at the time-- my mother to a ruthless Duke, my father to a bar wench who favored gambling. However, their torrid affair turned sour after my mother, Marzipan, caught my father in bed with a golf club and thus ended both their lives. Shortly after their tragic demise I was adopted by a colony of glow worms and raised in Haiti until my coming of age; I then conquered Valhalla with the help of my trusty house cats, Annabelle and Rupert. I am now attending school to become lava lamp engineer with hopes to own a brothel someday.
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Please keep in mind that I don't give a flying fuck.