A temple built to your self-importance
Air thick with rage blood and body odor
Walls adorned in baroque portraits ov every woman who turned you down
A selfish monument to infantile emotion
Long corridors inside your own mind
Glut entitlement steeped in failure
Greasy incubator for a monster
Go see a fucking therapist
You've never done anything kind for one of these women yet expect them to take a knee before you
What are they meant to be impressed by?
Insufferable gatekeeping?
Mysoginy dressed as chivalry?
An armful of NS black metal CDs?
Go see a fucking therapist
You pace the halls ov your own misery for without them as a safe space you would have to face reality
Righteous indignation at the blameless

And every night while tucked into bed, as creeping guilt finds your mind
You open the door in the dungeon and meet the man that you are not
He's you but happy and well adjusted
And he laughs as he says what are the cargo pockets for Lanza?
Extra mags?