you don’t own me. you can rent my body for a night or three, but don’t knock on my heart’s door because there’s nobody home. you could try to break in but i’m circling you in the shadows with a can of gasoline and a box of matches, waiting to jump at the opportunity to ignite this night with a little more fun than the kind that can be promised with a bottle of gin and doing the horizontal shuffle against a boxspring.

you wanted to **** me, and that was fine with me, but then you got greedy and wanted to love me and darling this just won’t do; i don’t want it, i don’t want you. (you might be inside me, but you’ll never be able to find me)
plEasE... i want to hold you close, but you have been infected and when your body is near to mine, the bile tilts and drips into the perforations in my skin. i’ve already been worn thin and this acid hits deep to the exposed nerves strung together like broken piano strings and sparking frayed wire.

petulance is a small child with his index fingers in his ears and his eyes ******* shut, as if he can erase fact from factuality; "it didn’t happen. i can turn back time, i can restart this game. insert 4 coins.”

i’m not dancing anymore; my bones are cracked eggshells held together only by how still i can stay, tongue bitten raw with the focus placed on my concentration and concealing my previous reputation--man, i’m not lost, i’m just searching for the person i used to be.
--- i don’t accept who i was, so how could i accept who you are? you are tainted and i am rust and the primordial soup of stardust, decay, and dust.

i am one incapable of loving, i am ugly and there are no pretty words to dress up my hate; i’m dressed with rage, dressed to ****. i should play tennis, because love means absolutely nothing to me.

you are the kinda mistake i’ll learn nothing from.