witches boil the sun into their cauldron
I drink so I could me swallow faster.
Chew away the things you despise
otherwise they grow for an eternity whole.


Eating, so I can puke on the canvas
so they call it either art or love my dear
some call it passion...
and they are right.
yet not even feeling compassionate
because they would not understand


the fire I hold in my skin holes
 when it burns, my flesh so smooth
 it washes down my body organs
screaming at Cyntia's home
waiting for the thunderbolt....