It's the feeling I hate the most.
When a full piece of paper,
filled with the most intimate lines,
from the most intimate songs,

They fill every single inch of the page.

The edges of the paper move inwards,
they inch like a caterpillar in the Mississippi afternoon sun,
the page crinkles
until it catches fire,
and the love story eats itself.

That's what I always call it,
just a story.
What was once so real a second ago,
now is a ****** romance novel,
written so housewives get turned on.

It doesn't take but a single drop,
a drop of poison the size of an atom,
to poison the whole fish tank.