Play dough

A misanthropic passion cavorts around his head
It almost always happens when i lay down in his bed
A role-play: smearing butter on an angel’s glass wings
But yeah, you guessed it- the door bell rings 

I’ve got play dough, thick behind my jaw
Tryna keep it safe from your wandering, greasy paw
Next moment, i’m covered in your blood, my sweat
Yet i don’t feel any remorse, nor regret.