Nicole
iMessage
Six feet under, thought I finally paid the price, Till a grave robber digs me up just to **** me twice. Peeled off my skin, tore the bone from my corpse, Made a lamp out the loot—what a sick, terrible sport. Bro, I’m dead already! A lifeless trophy inside his room, Ed Gein with his craft, designer decor made of doom. Dimming light on his desk while he’s taking a power nap, Still unloved as a house fixture , stuck in an endless trap. Never gotten a chance to ask if he’d love me as a lamp, He flips my switch: ON/OFF; joystick button in his hand My spirit absorbs in horror-dumb, mute cold and damp
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