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| it was a year ago today that i felt the phone vibrate. a simple statement: "i won't leave you."
by my bitterness alone you should know what happened. | | |
| you've got the onion opinion. and it certainly smells of hypocritical error and the guess and check. nobody asks for your inclination you constantly throw it out there to the wolves, as if you like the martyrdom that comes with it being ripped to shreds. please stop acting like you have all the answers once you're wrong you shrink back into your layers acting sweetly. i get a bad aftertaste and a whiff of bullshit.
i implore you to talk big. it only proves my intial point, that no one seeks out what you're thinking but you insist upon setting the landmines and stinking up the battlefield.
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| must all men be the way you are? you disgust me and monopolize the culture. | | |
| i cannot escape my mind that ugly thought of you merely ferments and dries into concrete. a most disgusting relevance to what you've been doing. you lie, it's worse than the act itself and the pious act of wishing to not want is bullshit. you lead with the worst force, lower than the head or the heart but you're getting hotter... the pun's intended. the story was so cleverly planned-- don't spill the beans unless the can is already open-- but the ending is wrong; it leaves a bad taste, like waking from a dream with someone's fingers in your mouth.
i slosh cold water around, licking my lips, trying to disguise my disgust. kisses and more from wanton perverts how can you possibly expect the best, for me to accept myself when you'd rather be loved by imagination alone.
how does one keep from the routine? love would surely suffice; but it will not, and your attraction runs out, clicking his heels. oh no, those physical urges again, and i am never enough. if agape > eros, and i am point A (you are B) what is the quickest way to sever the diagonal line?
put your hand before your lover. | | |
| flavors of life.
fruit punch mixes with the taste of mentholated cigarette, and the result is a strawberry ice cream cone melting with cancer. the machine hops over sections of pressed fabric so my prom dress looks like shit.
it doesn't stop the men from staring.
society mandates we can't play sports and you are not to sing in public no matter the circumstance. teaches young girls to be afraid at night, makes men panic when their last "performance" was apparently inadequate. we tell ourselves we are experiencing deja vu when our brains are just skipping like an old record, scratched, and corroding in dust.
i lick the last traces of flavor from my lips, a hinted aftertaste of a thousand burning photographs. i turn my head and cough out a hundred melodies never written down, and twice the unwanted lovers, the unmade beds, the understanding of nothing.
you pay for dinner. i'll let this kiss goodnight go farther than i'd like. | | |
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