My nemesis gyrates to her own spiteful tune,
placing the soundtrack on replay.
The film runs on endless reels.
She pops my joy balloon,
my present to myself.
She wakes me, sweating,
to a distorted future crone,
eating fast food ketchup for sustenance.
Our reality extends to large vistas
of past pain and future brimstone.
She dances to my pain,
relighting like a phoenix
what cannot be erased.
I need treatment.
Bring on your electrodes.
Incise into my skull.
Let the flagellation cease.
Pierce my demon heart
and grant me amnesiac peace.
