Filth is what I want

Something is going on, you know, in there. Inside the tangled corridors of my brain. They keep running away from me, the filthy little thoughts. Teasing me, like bitchy teenage girls. "We know something you don't know" will you tell me please, before I carve my eyes out in pure frustration? "You want to know, believe us, you need to know, but we won't tell" Fuck. Everything's a blur, I'm drowning in a dessert, and the air is suffocating.

I'm hearing Lolita lullabies and I have babydoll daydreams. Will someone be my Daddy, please? I wanna wear pink stockings and ribbons and lace. I want huge babydoll shoes with a big bow around the ankle. I want to make cute, curly pigtails, and I want a heart-shaped mouth, pink and precious. Kiss me on my open mouth Daddy, kiss me where it feels nice.
What am I saying? Everything is sick and twisted and wonderful and sexy and horrifying. Nothing makes much sense and I don't know how to think anymore. I want to do something that hurts. I wanna pierce my tongue in a venom-manner. Two beautiful jewels, side by side. White inks will scar my pale skin and needles will shoot trough like it was paper. Paper-skin. I want paper skin.
I want to breath smoke like a dragon, like beautiful clouds on a rainy full-moon night. I want my lungs to be full of fire, my veins full of venom and then, everything will match. Everything will match my charcoal heart. Everything will match.

I'm a fashion whore, a Lolita, a craving bitch that wants and needs every-fucking-thing.

I'm a freaking gorgeous disaster.