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Right up your alley in fact. Like all listings that pomp and circumstance of feces and cum was merely the assertion that tenderness is completely divorced from the interplay listings between eroticism and death. It all seemed to flow together, to be part of some divine order. Not just listings some lonely pratt in a jail cell trying to vent his anger and get off. So tell me the truth. Is that why you never held me afterwards? Why you'd sit and watch me try so hard not to cry I thought my chest would explode? If I looked up you'd be half-smiling, your eyes always gray after a torture scene, intent on me. I felt so naked I thought my skin had been turned inside out, that you could look up every hole and see the secret, ugly self that only my father had seen. There were times I thought I'd die, start weeping and never stop if you did not come take me in your arms, make it somehow okay that I'd let you do what you'd done, show me that you were the same person I sat up all night with talking to about books, ideas, while you sipped tea and rubbed my feet.
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