"Hold my fucking hand, loser. We’re using the buddy system for the rest of our lives."
I often find myself putting people into one of two categories.
1. Already destroyed by the world.
2. Waiting for the world to destroy them."
She devours my poetry and then throws it up into a vomit of words. And she tries to paint them with colors that only exists in my mouth. Somehow, she compares her sadness to mine, and sometimes she would love to possess a madness that only my veins design.
I do not want to be a part of her… I did not create her, but she feels created by my poetry. She uses my poetry as a muse to justify her love, for a boy who lost his heart down the road of a life full of affairs. And I don’t believe in her, because she knows nothing about love nor poetry. Therefore, don’t you use my words for your dirty little lustful heart.
I am not your hustler, and you are not my streetwalker."
"You don’t get to do that, to come into somebody’s life, make them care and then just check out."