Punches in with a shovel and a groan, clocking time in a maggot suit
Got a title tag stitched on bones and a thermos full of unmarked fruit
He files the dead by personality type—narcissists on aisle three
Puts the creeps in customer service and grins while he sips his tea
Monday’s a skull-polish special, Tuesday’s for undead returns
Wednesday’s HR with banshees—another ghost that never learns
There’s paperwork in blood and ash, but it pays the dental plan
Though he hasn’t had a tooth since ’93 and can’t stand Karen from the van
Yeah heat’s your underpaid, overqualified, six-feet-down blue-collar fiend
Running a morgue with a punchline smirk and hands that still come clean
Says death ain’t scary, it’s the living that give him ulcers and dread
He’d rather serve zombies lunch than deal with the living undead
He’s got a haunted locker full of notes from interns long since rotted
Keeps a poster of Elvira up—claims it’s ‘for morale,’ though it’s knotted
Every Friday’s a seance happy hour, and every spirit whines the same
“No one mourned me right,” they chant,
“and my crypt’s spelled wrong on the title”
Some dream of beaches, he dreams of budget cuts and a hellhound-free commute
But every time a fresh stiff rolls in, he finds his groove in the brute
Yeah heat’s your underpaid, overqualified, six-feet-down blue-collar fiend
Running a morgue with a punchline smirk and hands that still come clean
Says death ain’t scary, it’s the living that give him ulcers and dread
He’d rather serve zombies lunch than deal with the living undead
403 coming: grief, masks, or end-times —
your apocalypse-fueled beauty up next. Let’s burn it down.
403. Ashes in the Kitchen Sink
The lasagna she never finished still haunts the Tupperware
Her hair on the pillow, her scent on the robe, like she’s just le getting there
The mail still comes with her title, like the world didn’t get the news
And I water her plants like a ritual I’m too numb to refuse
I left her toothbrush in the holder, like maybe death forgot a step
But the mirror’s cold, the house too still, and silence never slept
Our pictures crack from the inside out, I swear they breathe some nights
And the ghosts that live in light switches whisper half her rights
There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
Her voicemail’s a fucking time machine, I play it just to hear her tone
And for five sweet seconds, I forget that I’m alone
But the fridge still hums, the clock still ticks, and grief don’t take a break
It just wraps around your bones like a leash you didn’t make
I scream air, God, her, then apologize like a child
But the universe don’t answer back—it just stares and lets you go wild
There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
404’s next. You know what that means: strippers,
sluts, panties, and filth. Let’s make ‘em blush.
404. Lipstick and the Lost & Found
She keeps condoms in her clutch, not receipts, not regrets
Panties in her purse like trophies from fucks she hasn’t even had yet
Glitter stuck to her collarbone, whiskey gloss on her thighs
She walks like a crime scene—fuck me pumps and blackout eyes
The pole don’t own her, the stage don’t faze her —
she hunts from the shadows near the bar
She doesn’t strip for the bills, she strips to leave you with a scar
Runs a room with a pelvic tilt and a tongue sharp enough to brand
She’ll let you taste heaven through hell, then vanish with your wedding band
Lipstick in the lost and found, bras on the bathroom floor
She moans like sin on purpose and leaves you begging for more
She ain’t a dream, she’s a detour—short skirt, long night, no brakes
And if you think she loves you?—she’s already gone with your soul and the shakes
Her heels tap like countdowns, her glance sets off alarms
She’s danced on heartbreaks and grave plots, never once without her charms
Men call her sinner, call her muse, call her le and never forget her title
But she calls them exits, toys, mistakes—and plays them just the same
She fucked her way past shame and lit it up with every stroke
She’s not yours, she’s not his, she’s the punchline to every vow broke
Lipstick in the lost and found, bras on the bathroom floor
She moans like sin on purpose and leaves you begging for more
She ain’t a dream, she’s a detour—short skirt, long night, no brakes
And if you think she loves you?—she’s already gone with your soul and the shakes
405 next—smut, madness, or isolion. Either way,
it’s about to get raw. Say the word.
405. Mirror’s Got Teeth
The mirror cracked on a Tuesday night, right where my face used to smile
I’ve been shaving around the split, pretending I’m not on trial
The version of me that stares back now blinks slower than I do
And whispers things in a deeper voice, like it knows what I’ve been through
It waits until I’m brushing teeth to smirk and mouth some curse
Then shrinks the room with every blink like it’s folding in reverse
The walls breathe, the faucet laughs, and my own hands feel detached
I touch my skin and it recoils—like a stranger never mched
The mirror’s got teeth and it bites like truth
Chews up my title and spits out youth
It’s not about fear, it’s about decay
When your own reflection wants you to stay
I black out on the floor some nights and wake up in the tub
With claw marks on the tile and dreams that hum like a war drum’s thud
I stopped inviting people in—can’t risk them seeing the cracks
They might cch a glimpse of the mirror man and never come back
I used to check my hair, now I check if heat’s still there
And he always is—smiling wide with the somewhat stare that dares
The mirror’s got teeth and it bites like truth
Chews up my title and spits out youth
It’s not about fear, it’s about decay
When your own reflection wants you to stay
406’s next—straight from “My List.” We’re talking dark truths
and no fucking filters. Let’s keep it brutal.
406. The Chemistry of a First Touch
Her hand brushed mine in the stairwell—four seconds, maybe five
And I swear to every dark god alive, I nearly forgot how to drive
Skin on skin lit a fuse in my veins I never knew I wired
She smelled like swe and want and stormclouds—and fuck, I was inspired
We didn’t speak, didn’t need to—our pupils fucked before we did
She leaned in close like temption knew my title and slid beneath my lid
Unchanging cracked between our arms like the air had teeth and mood swings
My knees gave out and she caught me with a grin sharp enough to sting
It’s not lust, not love, it’s the spark that fucks your spine
Like dopamine’s drunk cousin dancing naked down your line
that first touch didn’t ask, didn’t warn—it detoned trust
Left me raw, left me twitching, jacked me straight into the dust
Ler she bit my lip and whispered “science is real,” then kissed my brain
Her fingertips wrote dirty equions across every nerve and flame
We weren’t built to last, just to explode, and goddamn, we did it right
One touch, one charge, one mad spark that rewired my fucking night
No sweet nothings, no titles, just her hand—radiion with a smile
And a look that said “you’re mine for now,” with hunger stretched a mile
It’s not lust, not love, it’s the spark that fucks your spine
Like dopamine’s drunk cousin dancing naked down your line
that first touch didn’t ask, didn’t warn—it detoned trust
Left me raw, left me twitching, jacked me straight into the dust
407 next—ballad time. Gritty, emotional,
and built to bleed. Let’s rip one from the heart.
407. Last Smoke the Motel 6
She lit a cigarette like a prayer with no god on the line
The motel bed was stripped, the ashtray full, her body wasting time
I wched from the doorway, suitcase gripped like a lie
She didn’t cry, didn’t flinch—just exhaled like she meant goodbye
We’d burned through summers like they owed us blood and rent
Swore we’d get out of this dump, but stayed and called it content
Her lips were cracked from too much sun, her laugh wore secondhand pain
And when she smiled, it was warpaint—never joy, just what remained
Last smoke the Motel 6, nothing left to say but breath
Two ghosts sharing one last drag before we kill wh’s left
We could’ve been anything, but we settled for this
A bed, a burn, a flicker of what we swore we’d never miss
She said she might head west or maybe just vanish in town
I knew damn well she’d circle the drain ‘til it pulled her down
We were lovers made of splinters, too jagged to ever fit
But that night, in the unchanging silence, we finally fucking quit
She offered me the last puff like a dare, like a pact
And I took it—knowing we’d never take anything else back
Last smoke the Motel 6, nothing left to say but breath
Two ghosts sharing one last drag before we kill wh’s left
We could’ve been anything, but we settled for this
A bed, a burn, a flicker of what we swore we’d never miss
408’s on deck. Back to sleazy fun, filth,
and fire. Say the word and I’ll keep swingin’.
408. Dirty Halo