your body is a writhing mass sick pleasure internal: simulates the feeling of getting fing███d so who could blame you for getting off on it
welcome distraction from skin-deep iron chokehold to relish the euphoric sensation of your decay: lose yourself, lose more of yourself
new holes parting under organic ministrations pain and bliss exploratory and self-contained: renewed first mas█████tion
submission to the creeping hands born from your core fondling all that which they unravel of you: helpless admission of the eroticism inherent to coming undone
and when o███sm snaps the few remaining strands which hold your paltry body together you will realize you have always been this way:
when can a cycle be meaningfully distinguished from a spiral?