The Devil’s Palm

I wish this was the last kiss from the tissue. The devil fiddled, so I meddled. I’m not scrubbing the dishes, I’m unwrapping my fetishes. I’m in the nude; shaking hands with the devil. I’m an obedient slave, digging myself a grave; my hands are the shovel. It’s the only job for hire, shoveling coal into my own fire. There is no goal, only to shovel coal that has become my melting gold. I’m slowly committing suicide while all the angels sigh, just waiting for me to die! I’m taking action with false penetration at a tight grip of masturbation. I’d rather disown my body by skinning my flesh from the bone and watch someone else dress in it and do this evil deed indeed. Instead cold passes through me like a ghost that chills my bones, trying to force me to be its home. I ignore the fact that I can still prevent, instead I over actively hyperventilate while continuing to titillate. My head in seconds splits with spit; shooting out liquid cement all for just a few seconds of a reality shift. I’m far from content. I’ve lost my way. My God-given soul has been compromised by me and the devil. We go hand in hand. I wish it were an accident, I have much guilt and regret; I wish to forget. It wasn’t a wet dream that uncomfortably seemed. It was the Devil’s handbook, “The Plain Palm Plan.” I’ve got a mess stained with wrists strained. I try to detach while I distract. I hurry and allow the other part of me to take it, but he fakes it while using the same quick hand; in a magician’s clever trick, not to bind but blind. The illusion of smoke and mirrors fails to cover my trail. I’m afraid I can’t just wipe away this issue. They’ll be many more kisses from the tissue.

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