Dear most of you. I hate you. Shut the fuck up. I resent you. You don't deserve success.
You can already survive. Beyond that you're just shoring up insecurity. Fucking make some room. But no. You won't. Your tiny success is why we all fail. I'll eat you. Before I die. In a perfect world. You'll burn. In this world I'd be caught too. I'll burn too. I burn now, just thinking it.
I leave you alone.
I love you though. Some of you sometimes. And want to kiss your hair. Because I like your little moan. That time you appreciate a moment. The rest of the room let it go. But I shuddered. And wondered if it's the same moan as in private pleasures. Which I'd like to offer. But then. I'll have too much. Of you. Of life. I'll hold it. I'll need to burn. You'll burn me. Or need me. And I'll want to offer. So I'll grasp. For us. And they'll burn me.
I leave you alone.
I'll sit. And think of you. Think of me. Of them. Fucking and burning. Hate and love. I'll wait. Until the moment after wanting. Until the other fire.
Have you heard me moan? Enjoying a moment? Did you hate me then? Or imagine me under you? What fire do you have for me? What fuel? What air? And where is it written?
I am without ink. You without pen. They without me. We print our own words. No one reads them.
I'll burn my own library. Twice. And bury it. The smoke will carry me.
There is no sense in it.
My books were not much.
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