Attatched

So beautiful, the corpse in which I lay. Their death is my life, their blood my drink and their body my food. Some may say I'm too clingy, too attached, but most hardly ever notice I'm there, and most notice too late. Burrowed in the chambers of your love, hiding from the scalpel, waiting for that first incision. But the evidence is gone, the killer moved on to some other helpless soul, in the form of pills, dirtied drink, or feces; looks truly do not matter. My lovers give to me their life, I gladly accept; I cannot survive on my own, my greed fills me and squishes everything out of my self until I am nothing but the essence of ignorant greed. They must feel bad, their hearts are so big; what is one more creature to fit in their? I cannot be detached from the one who gives me a heart, lungs, and life, or I will be nothing but a corpse. My love is the deadliest kind, materialistic and possessive. It will suck your blood dry till you are nothing but a box in the ground, and I will keep on living, stuck on my new love and the next and the next and the next. I love all my hosts; and their hearts are too big to not love me, too.