interlude.
When I think of us, I like the hints of bile acid.
I hate the way you look at me. Ta me how
serine how our history is pathetic, it inevitably becomes pathetic to hear you charge the same words with the exact memory of what the previous.
I hate that you have the propensity to urge me to suicide.
Since at the end I'm still alive, more than ever.
My love is a weapon with which I flirt sometimes at night the day, Russian roulette, you know a bullet hit a 6 to join the little death.
All you have me squirted in the face, because that's how I want you.
But let the trivialities to virgins.
We, the beautiful, the organic exploding every time. How we
fits so perfectly, so tragically.
What moves me is not that extreme sentimentality that you learned.
But it is this fragility that you may explain, only when I'll crush that you used to the hilt. This look both servile excites by force my hand employs t'émasculer.
Because sometimes I like to think that I am the man you and the eunuch.
Even if it's a vagina between my legs and once a month I empty my blood like a pig being slaughtered.
- My tear - it is for us that I'm doing this to show you that you love by destroying more briskly, and that the pain is permanently attached enjoyment. Yes. Your tears are significant and no evidence that more flowering of our passion.
I love you hate and suffering, but also resentment.
You're part of me, still remember your scent that pervades my entire apartment.
fumes of a relationship that has clearly failed.
Because there are irrefutably one who loves too much.
In this case it was me.
I, who desired so much something
someone so volatile, fickle, venomous.
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