You don't trust me, you don't give a fuck. You need me, and when you're done eating up my flesh, you'll dump my bones to the awaiting dogs. Your conscience is a lie. A bitch is what you are. A self-centered, bigoted, unaware whore of intellectual emptiness and a facade of fake kindness.
You obliterate the ritual laws of love. You know nothing of love but a set of traditional restrictions put forth by religious sayings and old tales, and you don't even cherish those. You're cruel, challenging a Disney crone on the extents of evilness your highness can reach, and you surpass her, as you categorize the means of wrong attitudes and hurting actions.
You can stare me down, citing your lies easily. You can't even recognize truth as you build a web of fake tales, and as you're caught in your act, the high-pitch of your voice suddenly pops up, invoking the racing heartbeats of my heart and utilizing its unknowing senses.
Fuck you, may I say. Fuck you and fuck your deceit. Fuck the imaginary image of you, and fuck the thing I started with you. A thing which I knew of its deviation and never stopped, as I got addicted to your apparent easiness, which was all part of your plan.
Fuck my heart which succumbed.
The above is a burst of fictional emotion.