The Thought:

He is the epitome of what I want to fucking be.
He is Master Vanity Robbing me of my sanity.
Fill my voids with imperfections, that which he does wreek.
Angelic sweetness and chivalry is dead and obsolete.

The Philosophy:

Perfect like God she doth despise,
Nothing but sinners in God's eyes;
so what do her eyes see? What does she perceive?
I'll behead the devil to make her smile.

The Action:

I'll spit forth crimson from my wrists
because imperfect perfections will not be missed,
And as I whither I clench my fists
as his name is the last breath from my lips.

The Consequence:

Within a week I will not even exist in memory
and even those fade with time so my days are few.
The little shreds of love I've ever inspired are forgotten
and with that dies the burden of caring for a wretch.

The Rebirth:

But to him, I'll be the eternal boulder on his shoulder.
I'll be the transparent terror that traumatizes.
The Nightmare that materializes and before his eyes
terrorizing the life that I'll make him end...