A Nymphomaniacal Death of Me

The sour element of my life    
peels away like skin from a skull.    
The smell of rotting vagina is subsiding.    
I just can't take it any more!    
   
I lick up the essence of someone else's juices    
when I taste this woman's feet of her heart.    
I tickle her foot fancy, and the heart is thrilled.    
It grows three sizes in front of my eyes.    
It was for that reason that I thought that it was mine,    
but I have never been a master.    
I was a king that was captured,    
and I'll forever live my life as a pawn    
that if threatened would self-destruct    
and tell everyone around to give up on him    
like the tense silent moment    
of a perpetual ill-fated checkmate.    
   
Here's my heart-- fresh and tender    
beating like a virgin raindrop symphony.    
Here. Take it! Take it!    
I'll stuff it into your cunt    
and maybe then you'll find me pleasurable    
and not just an ear for your boredom.    
You'll love me then.    
You'll love me then.    
You'll want me.    
All I have to do is    
   
feed you my suicide--    
the death of every good attribute that I believed in.    
Holding my heart, I'll shove my tight fist into your infamous hole    
and make my blood a lubricant and squeeze my heart dry.    
My dick was never big enough,    
but maybe now you'll think I'm macho.    
   
I'll take your fleshly body and cause pleasure to possess you    
when I pin you naked against the wall like a secular crucifixion    
and bite you    
like an incrazed sex addict.    
Because I was never energetic enough before.    
   
I'll rip out my brain and die to myself and I'll do this for a lifetime without other judgment.    
No woman cares about my thoughts anyways.    
So take it.    
Take my desire away.    
Take my consciousness away.    
If I can finally be useful to you now    
and finally be yours forever,    
then I don't want to be me anymore.    
My  tongue does not speak.    
I am silent.    
My heart does not determine what is real.    
I am only sexual and violent.    
Tongue plays sheep between the fold of mountains.    
I am dumb, but it is best for your guidance.