Some times I feel the urge. Surging through me like acid in my veins.
There's only one way it will cease. An Itch I must scratch. In a place I can't reach.
Like Ivy growing inside of me. Each vine I tear growing back quickly and restlessly.
What drives me? What fuels my desire? Beauty. Madness. Duplicity?
I find myself staring. Yearning. Grappling.
I want it ripped out of me.
Torn at the seams and used for rags.
Death to lechery. RIP la dolce vita.
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