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It was in tragedy of reflection that is
Oh purest of nights was to drink incessantly from these veins
Beauty in comparison to no other
A standard made in flesh will in sickening glory
Run feverishly upon the razor's edge
Admiration, this night shall end
How she loathes the sight of herself
And with every frantic thrust, her pallid supple veins
(Showered in orgasmic tides of crimson)
Have quivered at their very sight
What once was desired
Is now a mere sickening depiction
A face so macabre
Convulsions induced by vomiting
No more a seductress, no less a queen
In detest of her mere reflection
Her youthful complexion once adorned
The paths carved through arterial fabrication
At the hands of herself
You disgust me
She cries with hoarseness in her throat
The razor, its soliloquy silences all
How beautiful its merciless sway
Her eyes, they close for one last time
All impurities unwashed in this filth and dishonor