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.**