It feels comforting, 
Apathetic until a situation reaches a point of extreme despair. 
Merciless, the story goes and it feels great to never really be here, 
I am morally culpable, 
And you only have the slightest idea. 
Paranoid about the evolution of my feelings, 
Or lack there of, could take. 
I'm a walking contradiction. 
So I lick the nipples of perfection, 
Turn around and bury my face in the belly of the beast 
Or wherever I think it belongs the most