was it worth it?
to feel something? just for ten ******* minutes,
to feel something?

i can't look at you, Conchúr,
you repulse me.
every crocodile tear and shark-*******-smile,
with your smug little laugh,
and your meaningless words -

you weave them together,
constructing vast fantasies and empty promises -
how many people have you trapped,
in your wide and selfish net?

oh! but you've always been so good with words.
and may that be the death of you,
because you deserve hell for your sins:
one eternity is not black enough for creatures like you.

lies, lust, pain - that's your bread and butter.
you never were good at much else,
but ****** you are good at hurting
those around you, the ones who care.

she was right to get rid of you,
especially when she did,
because look how far you've come!

when was it... only last night you tried again,
didn't you? you thought no one was looking,
but they all have eyes, and someone will find out.

they'll see your scars (remember to keep it below the belt next time, buddy, okay?),
or they'll see the blood (god, how it gushed after all that dancing - i thought you were a goner),
or they'll find your pathetic little poems,
gathering dust on some forgotten corner of the internet,
where your heart is too bare,
and its blackness is plain to see.

what then? will it be worth it then?
to express something? just to try and put your life in words,
to express something?

"oh look at you, you poor thing,
you've been so hard done by..."

*******.

this is your fault,
and you deserve every last ounce of hurt.