Panic.

You're weak, like a bug; hiding in blades of grass from eight legged monsters. Yet, you think I will succumb and hold tight in your web. How could you be so ignorant?
Your constant insecurities. Honey, did it ever occur to you that I might be pretty?
An early Friday evening, at home with the bottle. I am no slut, yet you treat me like one. Believing I am a ravenous female who cannot control her urges; anyone around- next thing I'm in the bedroom, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. Screaming with pleasure. Breathing their names. Biting their necks. Nails in their flesh.
I am so fed up, that your nightmares may just turn into realities, my dear. What will you do then?

Listening To:
The Incident-Porcupine Tree.