Love me for my destruction, for my mayhem -- after all, loving you isn't so much different, I could have chosen cigarettes, smokey ashtrays over your smokey eye make-up, Or maybe alcohol, sip at lukewarm beer, and become embittered by how your lips are stained elegantly wine, and then again, I might've had the opportunity to inhale car exhaust but your breath is much heavier than monoxide and much more deadly-- turns out nuclear warfare is much more easily attainable by your explosive needs for genocide -- you love those broken hearts, you little radioactive succubus. Knives, I could have made love to a knife, but I guess your nails served the same purpose, you've left your mark, okay? I have a target in the shape of little crescent marks on my back from you and people keep staring. And yes, I could've injected myself with something stronger like morphine, but you're already running through my ******* veins -- I looked up "infatuation" in the dictionary but the words kept blurring because all I could see was your blushing expression when I used my fingertips like paintbrushes on your cheekbones.
am i a ******* for wanting to run back into your arms