She rode that bottle of whiskey
Past those tears of empty regret
And straight into the bowels
Of bitter hell
Where she fell to rest among the
Most unfortunate of the human race…
A pile of sinners and scandalous
Murderous souls much like her
And in need of a good thrashing…
It’s a good thing that most drunks delight
In the fine arts of masochism
And light bondage
Since
Satan has more than one sexual
Deviation tucked in his pants and
Stashed away up his sleeve…
“What goes around, comes around,
my precious little doll”
The Crowned Prince of hell moaned
While fondling the better parts of him
And giving her his grandest
Most impressive tooth-lined smile…
“We are all friends here…
Trapped by some foolish clichés and
Razor blade scars…”
She could only nod,
Fake a shy little smile
And curse herself for this great mistake.
Who knew that the self-loathing
Suicidal ones
Would spend eternity getting fucked
(In more ways than one)
In the dankest pits of God’s
It’s an exclusive party on weekends only
Hell.
Oh, if only she’d believed…
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