Decapitator,
may everything turn out okay
so that you can leave this place.

I could hope the worst for you,
and believe me, I stopped hoping positively
for a long time.

I could hope that your newfound skill at
the Spanish guitar leaves your fingers in shambles
and splinters.

I could hope that you rot,
like a love-letter
in a landfill.

I could hope you wake up from your trash-heaping heaven,
clawing at the garbage of your past loves
and your skill turns out to be a curse.

But it won't matter.
Because you'll still be kissing her,
and I bet her lips might never get tired.

You romanticized things that hurt.
Cancer, suicide, complete and total wanderlust.
Like running away was the easy way out for both of us.
Black lungs and red veins are what turned you on.
Pixie cuts and short tempers.
Lost lovers who know the unloving.
I smoked with my lungs, but I never once let it leave my teeth.
Now, smoking is the closest thing I can get to killing myself.

Postpone your tiresome
quarrels if you can, or leave
and take them with you.

Whoever loves,
let them flourish.

Let them perish,
who knows not love.

Let them perish twice over,
whoever forbids their love.