I met you, and in five minutes you had wiped me right off the planet with your charm.

Now, a mere hour later, I am ashes in your wake.

It is clear as crystal.

As fine as the softest downy feather.

That you were meant

For a certain kind of hell.

How else can one like me, with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back,

describe the likes of you, with your mirages and mirrors?

You who takes and takes and gives back fire

to burn the skin from my bones

and leaves me smouldering by the side of the road.

But you love it.

You ache for it.

You, who deserves only to be exposed

to a certain kind of hell.