It feels comforting,
apathetic until a situation reaches a point of extreme despair.
Merciless, the story goes and it feels great to never really be here,
I am morally culpable,
and you only have the slightest idea.
Paranoid about the evolution of my feelings,
or lack there of, could take.
I'm a walking contradiction.
So I lick the nipples of perfection,
turn around and bury my face in the belly of the beast
or wherever I think it belongs the most
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