My narcissism presses a rust corroded knife to my throat, Resting the most acrimonious point against the tender spot, Between two white-winged collarbones, It tells me to be conceited, to sacrifice the other and save myself, I never much enjoyed the flavor of blood, So I grope at the papery breasts in my pocket, Clawing for the feminine skin of a scratchy green, Then flick her at the clerk's face, Her value wasn't worth over an one hundred anyways, So I abandon her into avaricious hands, The green paper erases many names, many identities, And it saves my own into first place, Then I stand waiting by the door for them to call, My rank, my first place as others bleed on the floor, I look impatiently at my watch, as humans howl, Like desperate beasts in agony, And I just wait, to hear the syllables, consonants, and vowels of my name, Where I can step forth with my trophy, Step recklessly over human bodies, I crave my knife to be the first to ease away, From the...