Humanity sold for an imagined experience. Respect lost by all parties involved. Your corpse is not worthy for the dogs to feed on. Even they realise that.
Your ideal is something your soul detests but your desire out weights your very character. Cunts and tits, their scent the driving force for the pain you inflict upon yourself. This self created obsession will never subside, its fire ever yearning for more of your fibre. Feeding it rots what is left of your being, but its worth had deteriorated beyond redemption. The remains of your soul choose not to resist the disappointment it now relies on.
You are less than nothing, and I am hurt by your condition. But the scarring pain is that which you cause the one I love. Their lives mean less to you than the body you sacrifice and for this you should never recover. Neither will I. I only pray they will.
Hate isn't enough to describe this. I am somewhere between screaming and crying.
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