Some people crave nicotine.

Others, tabacco.

Fruit.

Hot wings.

I crave intimacy.

Not sex.

I crave my fingers digging into your open stomach.

I can taste it—smell it.

I wonder, will the warmth of your blood comfort me?

It’s beautiful, how alike we are.

I can’t stand how fucking shallow our generation is.

Let me show you what love is.

Let me show you how much I’ve devoted myself to you. It’s not a temporary fascination. I might move to the next girl but that’s only after I digest you, sweetheart.

I’m not methodical but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I just don’t own a hacksaw. I have a hunting knife though, that’ll do. Right?

It’ll make for better memories that way.

Stop fighting.

You should be grateful.

Stop fucking fighting.

You should be grateful!

You’re my final meal on death row.