Tell Me Your Secrets

Tell me your secrets and I’ll show you mine.

The figurative, and literal, skeletons that riddle your closet.

I want the deep, the inherently dark, the undeniably twisted parts of what make you, you.

I want the disturbing. The dirty. The disgusting.

The things that you keep locked up inside your mind so tightly it’s impossible for you to make yourself give voice to the words, your throat closing in on itself with your every attempt.

Tell me the things you know others would condemn you for, the things you would never dare tell even your closest friends for fear of their reactions.

Tell me the shame, the embarrassment that you feel at the most depraved parts of yourself.

I want them. Icravethem.

Tell me your secrets and I’ll show you mine.

The blood that stains my hands, my soul, from the skeletons that riddle my closet.

I’ll show you the grotesque, the unequivocally repulsive, the unmistakably heinous parts of what make me, me.

I’ll show you the corrupt. The vuglar. The horrifying.

The things that I keep locked up inside my mind so tightly it’s impossible for me to ever forget them, reliving the memories a certain type of euphoria all on its own.

I’ll show you the things that others have condemned me for, the things that I have done that make others fear me and my actions.

I’ll show you the bliss, the beauty that comes with accepting the vilest parts of yourself.

I’ll make you want them. I’ll make you crave them.

Tell me your secrets and I’ll show you mine.