I didn't do it.

I swear on his life.

Of course I did it,

Otherwise, I'd swear on mine.

I broke his heart.

Shattered that pure gold.

Made a young man,

Feel hatefully old

I didn't do it...

Ok, yes I did.

I took his number,

Under the fingers he slipped

I shouldn't have called him.

But I was curious

Is it the devil in me

That makes life so much worse to live

I didn't do it.

Maybe I did?

I hope she'll forgive me.

But I hope she never forgets.

He said he loved me,

So did the whole lot

Take a number to

Go with this misery I've got

I didn't do it.

Break all those hearts.

I came here to confess.

Oh, but where do we start?

Mind if I light a cigarette?

I've never been comfortable in my own skin, rigid and deformed from my infatuation with fire. That's why I'm a collector of fine human leather, homemade and picked from the herd. I have to drink, enough to drown out the screams, the suits are excellent if taken while alive. I have to keep my trophies moisturized, they become brittle, and crack. It would be a waste to lose such precious artifacts.

I keep them hidden in a secret wall, but I take them out and strut in my living room like a runway model walking on the stage. I look so beautiful when I'm someone else, either blonde or Burnette or hair of red. Some may think I'm sick, or crazy and I might agree it depends on of I took my medicine that day.

My brother was over one day and almost found my collection a total of 49 pieces. I had to make him understand. He resides at my house now, but in the cellar. I may make a piece from him and call it breathen within breathen. I give all my pieces names; scarlet letter, king in queen, you get the hint.

I have a new piece in mind, I've been watching her she lives close to where I stay. She reminds me of my mother she died years ago, and with this piece I could start to build my family.