My humor is whole in an empty room,full of nothingness,
its clamoured with caressed beauty,painted in red, that shade of blood,
she is the beauty in a casket,that light you see in a grave,
she is the pain skirted on skin by a sharp razor,
she is the ambient that dances on thorns and is licked by venom tongue,
she's a turn on by violence,
she comes and goes like puff of a blunt,
she takes critism as compliments,
she's the heaviest page on light font,
she's the honest liar, the trigger on suicidal thoughts,
she's that yell that moans to stabs.
She's the miniac, she knows .
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