I sat down today, and I told myself that I needed to leave this place. I stood like a dejected cadet and lowered myself down again, I double-guessed myself and questioned all the salt in the water, and called them little liars. I would punish them if I could and boil them dry.
If I think about it, if I think really really hard, until the veins in my tress pulse and quiver (like the whores you fucked), I'd say getting out of here would do much good for me. I would've probably tied my hand to a Glock if I had one and made a hell of a canvas out of the pretty flowers at your doorstep. Then, and only then, will you never be able to rid yourself of my scent, butchered pink, like the bacon in your brunch plate (you don't like eggs). It'll be just for you, and you still say I'm nowhere near the sweet girl you wished.
Beelzebub, I loved and you left me high, and dry; my scarf clutching at your toes and bones wet as a baby. See, now, now I'm seeing things clearly -- I don't think I would ever want to leave your side. Maybe I'll hide beneath your floorboard and smell your deodorant in the mornings. Yes; yes, that's exactly what I shall do. I'll see you in the morning, darling; I love you.
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