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